The greatest thing about bad dates is that eventually they end. You can make false promises about catching up again, be upfront or even use the old “it’s not you, it’s me” excuse. Back in the safety of your own home you can relax, knowing you will never have to endure a conversation about vehicle restoration or the mispronunciation of gnocchi ever again.
Lately I’ve come to realise that living with a three year old boy is not unlike being stuck on the worst date you’ve ever had. It is one part homeless dude, two parts Rodney Rude and a scary touch of Ted Bundy for good measure.
On a good day, our bathroom smells like Flinders Street station. On a bad day, it’s an Irvine Welsh omnibus. There’s an aversion to hand-washing, hair-washing and teeth-brushing and an unrelenting appetite for food. Showers are often had under the watchful gaze of a pair of beady eyes. Sometimes your backside is the “biggest one in the whole world” other days they just stand there and stare. Unsmiling and generally creeping you out.
Toilet humour. “Just how many variations is there?” you might ask. Well let me count the ways. There’s bum and bottom and boobs and bum cracks and poo poo heads and “look there’s poo on your head *insert Rodney Rude laugh here*” There’s indecent exposure in the cereal aisle of the supermarket.
But possibly more worrisome is the serial killer stuff. “A shark is going to eat your leg mum and there will be BLOOD EVERYWHERE ahahahaha!” Sometimes I find myself losing touch with reality and checking with my husband that it’s okay for boys to squash snails “It’s normal boy stuff” he reassures me, yet the maniacal laugh that follows “I killed a snail!” occasionally haunts my dreams.
Last week I went to tell my son a bedtime story and this happened – “Mum there was a scary abominable snowman and a shark and a whale killed him then the magpie and the crow and the birds ate him”. I didn’t sleep for two days.
Are you living with a bad date?