The Littlest Things

Life is all about the little things that make us happy. And when you become a parent teeny tiny things just enable us to have that warm, glowing feeling inside. Like a little hand holding yours when your walk down the street. Or a little cuddle on the couch. Or a tiny drawing of a slightly wonky face and a little voice saying "I love you". Then. There are other little things. That you also have never experienced before. But these little things? TIP YOU OVER THE EDGE. They are small things. That bring on such rage. Granted, an irrational rage. But a burning internal rage non the less. The kind where you smile broadly and your voice goes all squeaky and manic. You know. That kind.

Wrong little shoe. Wrong little foot
In the never ending rush that is leaving the house with toddlers. There is one little thing that makes me lose my sh*t. The Wrong Shoe. Wrong Foot dance. "Pass me your foot" you say already a bit cross as you are running late. They pass you the wrong foot. Gah! You get the other shoe and then they pass you the other foot. "NOT THAT FOOT!!!!!!" you scream and then? They put all their fingers in the thumb of a glove and you sigh. Tempted to let them just go out bare footed and freeze.


Tiny hangers
Little tiny hangers are so cute. When you have little tiny clothes. And then you get bigger clothes. And then everything falls off your hangers and you realise you need some sort of hanger filing system and who has got time for that sh*t? No-one. So you end up balancing clothes on tiny hangers (do not get me started on the weird shaped long hangers) or ramming everything into a drawer. Let's just say my son? Does not have a wardrobe.

The 'lost little sock' issue
Pre-kids you would hear that socks always go missing and you would think? Come on people! They are only socks. Surely you can keep control of small cute little socks. It's not rocket science. They come in pairs. Just wash them in pairs. But? It doesn't work like that. I counted 9 random socks last wash. 9. Random. Now mis-matched is the new black in this house. Or tights. We like tights. If my husband would wear tights? I would ban socks all together.

The Brummy accent is hardly up there with the most beautiful of sounds. When I heard both my two first say that little word "Mummy", sigh it was amazing. But as they get older it is turning into "Muuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmyyy". To be said in the broadest brummiest accent known to man. And to be said approximatley every three seconds. Make that every two seconds if I dare leave the room to go to the loo. One little word, used repetitively, to cause me the most amount of internal rage.

Every. Frickin. Time.

Wrapping shizzle
Sigh the never ending picnics. Sigh the never ending parties. Sigh the fact at the age of 36 and being the owner of a Masters in Education. When I wrap anything? The above happens. EVERY TIME. It happened twice only last week. And there is only one person to be angry with. Not me, the person that foolishly cannot get the right amount of silver foil. No. The silver foil people. Somehow? It is their fault. Fact.

So little socks, little words, little hangers, little gloves and well just not the right amount of silver foil can make my days more irritating than is required. I am aware this is my issue. I should be Zen. I should care not if they are walking round sockless in the wrong shoes. I should have a hanger filing system sorted by now after nearly four years of being a Mother. But one thing I have done to keep me sane? Is embrace the rage, embrace the fact I'm not perfect and that these little things will drive me up the wall. And as long as I still enjoy the other little things; like a little giggle or a little sloppy kiss on my cheek. Then I'm being the best Muuuummmmmmmmmmmyyyyy I can be and it's all good.

Would love it if you clicked on this and then voted on my face. It is a thumb. 
So it could be like you giving me a little punch in the gob. Which you may like?

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