I'm Sorry I Haven't Been The Friend I Want To Be
I’m really lucky to have made some fab mama friends over the past three years, and so happy to still be in touch with old friends, some of whom have also become mamas at the same time. I also have an amazing close-knit family of strong women and sisters who are also super-mommies.
So this, I say to all of you, while I have your attention and while I have the chance and in the hope that you will understand because you’ve all been there too.
I’m sorry if when you’re talking you think I’m not listening to you. I am.
I’m just also simultaneously listening for crying children behind me. Not my child. But the child my toddler has no doubt decided he wants to “share” toys with. And by “share,” I mean put it down because he’s bored with it, see someone else pick it up, decide he wants it again, or just doesn’t want anyone else to have it even if he doesn’t — the unfathomable mind of a toddler. Because we all know the bestest toy is always the one that got away, right!?
I’m sorry if I am talking to you, but not looking you in the eye. I can see you.
I’m just also using the eyes in the back of my head to check my toddler hasn’t scaled the bookcase in the coffee shop and is about to perform some amateur wrestling dive onto his little brother sleeping peacefully in the buggy.
I’m sorry if every third word I speak is punctuated with “Oi, where the hell have you gone, you little b*gger!?” I promise I will get to the point, eventually.
I’m just also trying to play “spot the toddler” with my monster child who is “going through a phase” where he insists on playing hide-and-seek, except he doesn’t actually tell me we’re playing. Cue mama having a heart attack more often than what’s probably good for me while he’s merrily giggling to himself having climbed into the box in the corner of the room.
I’m sorry if I launch myself across the room just as you’re telling me about your day. I do care.
I’m just also trying to teach my little man how to behave in this world, and to treat others as he would like to be treated. So I will drag him back to say sorry to the little girl he made cry because he was pretending to be a velociraptor again and doesn’t quite understand yet that not everyone shares his unhealthy obsession with all things toothy and Jurassic.
I’m sorry if when you call me I don’t answer, then I call you back but have to go after two minutes. Your call is important to me.
It’s just at that exact moment in time my baby has decided to explode. And by explode I don’t mean from the top. I don’t mean from the bottom. I mean from both ends. Like a chundering incontinent he-devil. He knows he’s wearing a brand new top which mama hasn’t had chance to insta-snap yet. He knows that yummy carroty concoction he wolfed down at lunch will stain everything when it comes back up. He’s 5 months old and he knows everything.
I’m sorry that you can totally see I have read your Whatsapp message, but haven’t replied. I will, it’s already written, in my head.
It’s just that my phone appears to a shining beacon of attractiveness to both my kids who are simultaneously trying to use it to watch Blippi videos on YouTube and apparently make calls to China. (Seriously if you haven’t discovered Blippi yet, google him, just for fun.)
So to all my friends reading this — I’m sorry.
I’m really trying to be a good friend. I’m also really trying to be a good mom (and keep my kids alive!). We women are amazing multi-taskers, but sometimes even this has us stumped.
Maybe in 10 years time we will finally have time to sit and have a coffee in peace, and talk about us. Just us. Our lovely houses, our recent Primani bargains. What color we’re going to paint our nails next.
Nah, who am I kidding.
It will be four bottles of wine and we’ll be talking about the kids. Standard.
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