Have a gin, go on.

You know what I discovered this half term?
How much more shit being a parent is during festivities.
Take Halloween for example. We took the kids pumpkin picking. How lovely, I thought, another American tradition for us lot to have a go at.
The pumpkin farm we went to had run out of their own pumpkins so had simply scattered someone else’s pumpkins sporadically around a field. They’d then charged us nothing short of extortionate prices for pumpkins that were smaller than my breasts. (I can scientifically prove this if you are wondering? I placed said pumpkins into my Bravissimo’s finest and there was ample room.)
Anyway, after explaining to our four-year olds that we’d have to reportage both ours and our parents houses if they wanted the big pumpkins, they lost interest and demanded to be pushed around the field in a trolley, which, quite frankly was a tricky damn thing to manoeuvre around sporadically placed vegetables, roaming dogs, other four year olds having tantrums and randomly, two pigs.
And of course, said pumpkins, that cost more than a night in our local Travelodge, for reference, remain uncarved on our sideboard, looking all depressed and reminding me that I am a shit mother for running out of time to carve out Peppa Pig or whatever wanker of a pup from Paw Patrol that B is favouring at the moment.
Then there’s the organised fun that us parents have to endure. The parties. Oh god the parties.
I know, lets all dress our kids up in shit, supermarket costumes that are incredibly flammable, and let’s feel bad for that notion momentarily and pray no idiot brings sparklers, then let’s pump them with sweets and undercooked hotdogs and watch them terrorise each other with roars and toy brushes. Let’s smother them in face paint which goes over you’re new Topshop jacket, the one, you shouldn’t have taken the time to shop or buy because you should have been home pumpkin carving or sewing a majestic handmade, fire resistant outfit for the child you so desperately wanted.
And all of this is in half term, you know? When one may like a lie in or a lazy day in pj’s which you inevitably get because your kid has eaten so much shit over the week she projectile vomits for twelve hours straight whilst repeatedly asking when she’s going to see the fireworks.
And fireworks, I despair. I’ve had to continually drug my two dogs and put Radio Four on a ridiculous volume to keep them content. So, they’ve been fed a cocktail of Greggs sausage rolls, uneaten decent food that child refused to eat, more tea towels, my favourite boots and a cocktail of narcotics that quite frankly, has done nothing for the little ones anxiety and just made the big one more stupid.
Then there was the obvious half term homework that I forgot to look at until about 7.45 last night, which has now resulted in B having no lampshade in her bedroom and me feeling ten times worse for not being more organised and a better mother.
And as we bumbled up to school late, with a lampshade that now loosely resembles an owl, I remembered, I’m doing my damn best, you know?
I’m keeping a job, house, humans and dogs in some sort of wonky order and I’m doing I the best I can.
So, if this half term has left you feeling wiped out, fear not, I’m here to tell you, you are doing a bloody grand job and if you want a gin tonight, I’m totally giving you permission!


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