At least the one thing they can all agree on is that rescued Barry the Wolfdog may indeed be The Ugliest Dog in the World, but he is also the loveliest. And there is never, but never, any milk in the house. Her precious moppets are now giant teenagers, and instead of wittering at her about who would win in a fight – a dragon badger or a ninja horse – they are Snapchatting the night away, stropping around the tiny cottage and communicating mainly in grunts – except when they are demanding Ellen provides taxi services in the small hours. Paxo, Oxo and Bisto turn out to be highly rambunctious, rather than merely chatty, and the roses have jaggy thorns. Life, as ever, is not going quite as she planned. Mummy dreams of a quirky rural cottage with roses around the door and chatty chickens in the garden. All ‘just phases!’ When do the ‘phases’ end though? WHEN?
The endless singing of Frozen songs, the dabbing, the weeks where apparently making them wear pants was akin to child torture. The toddler refusals to nap, the teenage inability to leave their beds before 1pm without a rocket being put up their arse. The picky eating, the back chat, the obsessions.
The tantrums of the terrible twos are ‘just a phase’. Not sleeping through the night is ‘just a phase.’ Potty training and the associated accidents ‘is just a phase’. I’m wondering how many more f*cking ‘phases’ I have to endure before my children become civilised and functioning members of society? It seems like people have been telling me ‘it’s just a phase!’ for the last fifteen bloody years.
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