The moment I found out why my little girl really 'hated' me
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I recently found a list my daughter had compiled which, and I'm going to be honest here, didn't exactly portray me in a favourable light, to say the very least.
Discarded among stray lego pieces and Barbie shoes, the crumbled A4 page outlined my shortcomings in a document which wouldn't have looked out of place in the Mean Girls' Burn Book.
Settling down on her beanbag which was, I might add, stained with the orange juice I specifically requested she drink in the living room, I took a deep breath and surveyed the offending article.
Why I Sometimes Hate Mummy was a comprehensive list which focussed on many aspects of family life which generally tend to get the better of my daughter.
From hoovering duty to the fact I washed her superhero cape without her permission, her grievances ran from the understandable to the somewhat perplexing.
While I saw her point when it came to bed-time (what kid will ever get on board with that notion?), I was a little confused when I realised she sometimes 'hated me a little bit' because I chewed too loudly.
I understood her annoyance for those times I forgot her bears' names and titles, but I was a little more concerned that she hated me "cos she also hated my pink shoes". (Impulse buying while PMS'ing ; don't judge me)
I accepted she might hate me because I didn't let her friend stay over last week, but I could not accept my daughter's hatred due to my love of beetroot.
I'm fully aware kids will be kids, and I certainly shouldn't take her impulse ranting to heart, but I still felt slightly thrown.
No one likes to stumble across something which belittles or derides them, so despite the fact I know my daughter has a heart as deep as the ocean, I still found myself feeling a little downcast as I hauled myself to my feet.
I threw the note in the bin, certain my little one would have little memory of writing it in the first place and made my way downstairs to comfort eat from a jar of beetroot.
That'll show her.
Discarded among stray lego pieces and Barbie shoes, the crumbled A4 page outlined my shortcomings in a document which wouldn't have looked out of place in the Mean Girls' Burn Book.
Settling down on her beanbag which was, I might add, stained with the orange juice I specifically requested she drink in the living room, I took a deep breath and surveyed the offending article.
Why I Sometimes Hate Mummy was a comprehensive list which focussed on many aspects of family life which generally tend to get the better of my daughter.
From hoovering duty to the fact I washed her superhero cape without her permission, her grievances ran from the understandable to the somewhat perplexing.
While I saw her point when it came to bed-time (what kid will ever get on board with that notion?), I was a little confused when I realised she sometimes 'hated me a little bit' because I chewed too loudly.
I understood her annoyance for those times I forgot her bears' names and titles, but I was a little more concerned that she hated me "cos she also hated my pink shoes". (Impulse buying while PMS'ing ; don't judge me)
I accepted she might hate me because I didn't let her friend stay over last week, but I could not accept my daughter's hatred due to my love of beetroot.
I'm fully aware kids will be kids, and I certainly shouldn't take her impulse ranting to heart, but I still felt slightly thrown.
No one likes to stumble across something which belittles or derides them, so despite the fact I know my daughter has a heart as deep as the ocean, I still found myself feeling a little downcast as I hauled myself to my feet.
I threw the note in the bin, certain my little one would have little memory of writing it in the first place and made my way downstairs to comfort eat from a jar of beetroot.
That'll show her.
