It’s the early mornings when I find myself in the kitchen at 6am making breakfast, trying hard not to scream at Toddler T who is gleefully banging cupboard doors because we still haven’t got round to putting locks on yet. It’s those mornings, when I haven’t had more than 2 hours sleep in a row because the little terror (who usually sleeps through) had me up multiple times, that I think to myself
What the hell was I thinking?!
Why the hell did I ever think it was a good idea to have a child?! My life was so much better before!
And then I immediately feel guilty and hate myself for having such a thought, because I know it’s a load of bollocks. My love for my son is unconditional (mostly), and I definitely don’t regret having him. My life was certainly easier pre-child, yes, but it was by no means better.
I wasn’t happy, not really, and I felt like I was wandering aimlessly through life with very little to live for. Having my son is easily the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but at 6am in a cold kitchen with next to no sleep and a constant banging of cupboard doors, that can be a hard truth to remember.