“I Want a F***!”

Written By

Rashmi Deb

Wellness - Childcare - I want an F___-21 Loading

“I want a f***! I want a f***,” screamed Jasmine, my 18 month old at the dinner table.  “What the hell is going on?” asked my husband looking at me accusingly. Of course, if a swear word was involved, it had to be MY fault.  “What’s a f***?”asked my 4 and a half year old. I rushed to give Jasmine a fork, yes a fork,  that’s what she wanted, while assuring everybody that Jasmine was trying her hardest to speak properly but her words might not always make sense.  Trust me, I was very tempted to shout out in the midst of this mayhem that a f*** was what got me in this mess in the first place.

Goodness, what happened?! All my notions of motherhood had been so rosy. I’d be mother Earth, I would be the gentlest, kindest woman on the face of this Earth. My children would revere me and have an abundance of wonderful stories of their happy childhood which they would narrate to everyone as happy, contented, mature adults. In short, back then I had loads of time on hand, I had an overactive imagination, and overall I had no clue.

Post two children with pretty crap pregnancies and births, there’s this continuous feeling of wonder at how such little beings can produce so much work — the bubble has burst and the cookie has crumbled. Forget growing our own fruit and veg in the back garden (this is in continuation of the mother Earth theme) I’m lucky if I manage to grow my hair.  My lovely locks had been brutally hacked off after my 3 month old son decided to chew on strands of it and then dutifully produce it in his daily poo.  The result, I convinced myself — was chic, but in reality, was the horrendous ‘boy cut’, of the ‘modern’ Indian girl of the 80s. My husband muttered, “At least we won’t be having any more children with that haircut.”

Now we have two children, oh yes. I barely manage to get anywhere on time. (I’m eternally thankful for the friends who have not moved on after having been kept waiting for hours on, endlessly) I constantly feel rushed, am hugely disorganised and I order my family around — a very unattractive trait.

We must be doing something right though, my husband and I often say, while lying on the sofa at the end of the day watching the most horrendous soap on TV (as our tired brains won’t take anything too taxing). The children are happy, they are well looked after (compared to so many families in difficult situations) and above all, surprisingly, they love us.  Despite feeling bulldozed at the end of every night, wishing for that impossible 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep; we still look forward to spending time with them.

I feel extremely lucky and immensely grateful for having our crazy, mad life with our two children, because I know that this time will run out only too quickly.  They won’t always be clamouring for our attention or crawl into our beds at ungodly hours, tell us of their every fear and desire or have us on that pedestal as the most important and perfect people in the world.  And though the chances of them sticking a halo on my picture at my funeral are pretty minimal as well, the hope is that they remember their not so perfect childhood with affection and the knowledge that I did try my best.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rashmi Deb, 35, lives in Norwich UK with her husband and two children, Roshan (5) and Jasmine (2). She is employed 24/7 by her children with no pay whatsoever and dreams of a day when the children will reward her with at least six grandchildren.

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