My sister has a whole range of colourful sayings. My current favourite is ‘GROW A PAIR!’ which is bellowed at men and women, young and old if she thinks they are being a bit wet or useless.
After this morning’s journal entry I have decided to take her advice. Again. I mean honestly. What a self pitying tirade it was. Of course being a parent is bloody hard. I’m told that’s what makes it so rewarding in the end. I’m English for goodness sake. There’s a level of decorum and stiff upper lipped-ness that should be adhered to at all times. I’ll leave the emoting to the Americans, thanks.
It looks like the girls are teething, poor things. The signs have been building for a few days now. They have been super-dribbly, red cheeked, restless, waking in the night, difficult to console and biting and chewing anything they can get their hands on. I won’t even go into the state of their poo for fear of sounding like an over-eager midwife.
So it appears that the roller-coaster ride for teething has begun. I don’t know whether to be grateful that they are going through it at the same time or not. I guess at least it is grim for a shorter period of time. It would be relentless if they did it one after the other, tag-team style.
Anyway, they are in bed now after a rather fraught day. To cheer them up I resorted to dancing round the kitchen like a loon to keep them going until bedtime. G loves it when I do funny accents and sing (she’s going to be tone deaf I fear) and R giggles like mad at my Scooby-Doo impression. They both look a little nonplussed when I do the moves to Tragedy (the Steps version) and Saturday Night by Whigfield but at least it distracts them from the grumps.
Everyone has their coping strategies. Dancing and singing are mine. I’ll have them on the dance mat and doing Singstar before they know it! I’ll do anything to take their minds off teething pain. In any case, I have to cope. I’m their Mum.