After months – nay, years – of having pertinent and witty thoughts on an hourly basis aout this thing we call parenting and thinking, I really must get them down on a blog, I finally start one and find I have nothing to say. Oh, the irony.
It has to be said that even three-odd years in, I feel I’m still getting to grips with the idea of being a mother. I was never going to have children, had no desire for them. Even now, kids frankly scare me, especially in gangs, with their sticky fingers and snotty noses and questions to which there is no sensible answer. So, kids were out. Until I found myself pregnant, and lo! a child was born. And she was quite sweet and we didn’t want to send her back, well, not often, so we had another one. One week after L’il Boo’s birth, I found myself doing the nursery run for the first time with him and Boogie, pushing L’il Boo in the pram and steering Boogie across the road on her bicycle while she tried to steer it in another way entirely, and I thought Huh? How did this happen? A real moment of un-clarity. Parenting is full of these moments for me. Like when you realise your child has a behavioural problem that has conpletely passed you by until the moment you realise it’s so entrenched, the House of Tiny Tearaways is the only sensible option.