5 incredibly exhausting parenting stories
There are MOMENTS in a mother’s life when you just want to scream out loud. Namely: I. Turn. By! The only consolation: they too pass. What remains are good anecdotes.
The long “I’m going crazy” night
My “I’m going crazy” night started like this: We came from skiing, the departure was delayed. When we arrived it was late at night and both children were over the moon. The first taxi driver didn’t want to take our daughter with him because he didn’t have a toddler seat. Just like all the drivers waiting behind him. “But on the plane she just sat on my lap,” I begged, but: Nothing there! So my husband, my son and the luggage took a taxi and I took her to the subway. On the trip she had to pee so badly that we were halfway out. It was freezing cold on the platform and everything was tight. So we get down from the platform, behind a bush. Child, snowsuit and tights were bulky: too late! So me with a screaming, soaking wet child up again on the abandoned platform: last subway gone! Taxi? I didn’t dare. My husband and son then came to the rescue in our own car – but only after the longest hour of my life.
Christine, a son and a daughter (then 5 and 3 years old)
The frivolously playful wedding ring
When we go home after visiting my parents, we sit in the car for almost 8 hours. For the last 7.5 hours I have to crouch on the back seat as a buffer between my daughter and my youngest child and prevent fights and spitting attacks of all kinds. On our last marathon ride, I couldn’t think of anything stupid as a distraction than pulling out my wedding ring. Of course the “wandering ring” fell down, of course the children got sick while searching, and of course we forgot the ring when we got out. But that the next morning my husband would drive to the gas station in our car, which is NEVER vacuumed, and remove all traces of the journey completely, nobody could have suspected.
Angela, a daughter and two sons (then 12, 14 and 6)
The failure at the wave pool birthday
Mega shock: I have a birthday reservation for 11 girls, but they can’t find the booking at the checkout. The children will only be picked up in four hours from here in front of the wave pool door. What to do? Pay the normal admission as inconspicuously as possible so that the birthday child doesn’t freak out, and come in! Instead of animation with a table in the birthday corner, only the gaudy wave pool is waiting for us. I lose courage and overview and drive everyone from the water to the catering area as quickly as possible. Order what you want, I say weakly, we’ll stay here for now. The remaining hours can be consumed by the ladies in a good mood for 385.50 euros. I’m so through with paying that I no longer know the number of my debit card and have to pump up the parents who are collecting the car.
Bianca, a daughter (then just 11 years old)
The Easter basket martyrdom
I will never forget Maundy Thursday when I picked up my three sons and a guest child from daycare, not knowing that on that day I gave home the self-made Easter baskets (made of paper, handles just tucked in, not glued!) became. Two big children rode their own bikes (so they couldn’t carry their own basket), the middle one had a running bike with him (so couldn’t carry the basket himself either), for the little ones I had (because they didn’t dream of transporting Easter baskets) thought) the bobby car with the push bar and not the stroller. With four Easter baskets hanging on my fingers and four fat jackets (it was still very cold in the morning, now suddenly T-shirt weather) we set off. It felt like one of the Easter basket handles came loose every two meters and the valuable chocolate eggs rolled onto the street, accompanied by the screams of the children. It took about 45 minutes to get home (instead of the usual 10 minutes), I was completely exhausted.
Anja, three sons (then 1, 3 and 5 years old)
The very brief MOMENT of rest
3.15 p.m .: Run to daycare, have to go to ballet with daughter. 3.30 p.m .: Bus has just left. 4 p.m .: Ballet starts, we’re there, but daughter wants to change clothes by herself. Sweat. 5:00 p.m.: Have to move on quickly to pick up the big guy at school. He’s definitely the last child in care again. Agitation headache. 5.15 p.m.: The bus has just left. 5.30 p.m.: He really is the last child. 5:31 p.m.: Daughter has to go to the bathroom at school. And takes its time. Allow this moment of relaxation, I think, last stop, after work, weekend. Breastfeeding the baby in the cabin next door. “Mom, they lock up,” shouts his son while strolling through the empty corridor. Race to the entrance. Daughter screams in the toilet, we at the front of the door. Baby roars. Caretaker hears us at the last second. Next time we’ll hurry up again.
Ela, a daughter and two sons (then 6, 8 and a half years old)
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