Slug Day.

The only way I would have any chance of being a permanently enthusiastic, go-getting supermum day in and day out would be if I developed some sort of class A drug addiction. Obviously this isn’t financially, legally or morally possible, therefore I have resigned myself to having the occasional ‘slug day’. This is a term I use to describe the days I just can’t be arsed with life.
Sometimes I will wake up in the morning and spring out of bed. I will feel in control of my life and welcome the day with open arms. I’ll quickly get dressed whilst the children are just waking up, then skip into their rooms and scoop them up out of their toasty beds with a cheerful smile on my face. I’ll change them both and dress them whilst merrily singing a nursery rhyme. Then we might go on an adventure to the shops or, if I’m feeling particularly wild and daring, a trip to soft play. I’ll get a delicious and wholesome meal on the table in the evening and greet my husband with a welcoming embrace when he comes through the door. Understandably these sort of days don’t happen very often. Why not, I hear you say? Because I’m not Mary fucking Poppins. And I’m not on crack.
I know when I’m going to have a slug day from the minute I wake up, usually because the first three words I utter are ‘fuck my life’. I spend the day feeling like I’m wading through treacle and looking like a fat slug on the sofa whilst I google fantasy holidays and search for the most expensive houses on Rightmove, plotting what to spend my imaginary money on.
On these sorts of days it’s nearly always raining, meaning going out of the house is far more effort than it’s worth. But by 2pm I’ll be tearing my hair out from watching Peppa Pig on repeat so I’ll have no choice but to face the world. After spending approximately four hours getting ready to go, I’ll realise I haven’t eaten anything yet and will swing by the drive thru at McDonalds just round the corner. We might then venture off to Tescos to pick up some formula and donuts before trudging home.
I’ll then put poxy Peppa Pig back on and sit in a zombified state on the sofa for a while before realising I haven’t started getting dinner ready. With only half an hour to go I’ll have no choice to settle on beige freezer food (nuggets, pizza, chips, fish fingers..). My husband will walk in from work and, if he’s lucky, I’ll just grunt at him. But if it’s been a particularly bad slug day he normally gets something thrown at him by me (i.e. his dinner) and lots of tears.
Slug Days seen to be becoming more frequent for me. I put it down to having two children under three at home with me ALL THE TIME. The eldest starts nursery two mornings a week in September, so only seven months to go. Woop.
I love my children to pieces, but being a mother is bloody hard some days. There’s no such thing as pulling a sickie. Some days you just have to go into survival mode. Ok so it’s not ideal sticking them in front of the TV and feeding them beige food all day, but at least they are happy (most of the time). I call that a mum win.
I whisper ‘sorry for being shit’ to them when they’re peacefully snoozing away in their beds in the evening of such days. And I’ll mentally keep my fingers crossed for a better day tomorrow.

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