Embracing the Chaos: A Weekend in the Life of a Toddler Mum
It’s Friday night.
My husband is out for dinner with friends in the city. My three-year-old is asleep. I hear a fake stream rumbling on an electric sound machine used to help him sleep. We just graduated from white noise a few months ago.
I’m on the couch, swaddled in a Peter Alexander robe with ‘Mum’ embroidered along my right boob. We got Maccas for dinner in a hasty dash to secure a meal before 6pm; the cold fries were subpar at best. My toddler, with his blocked nose and delirious energy, has probably given me a cold. I down an Armaforce and get to work doing the bare minimum.
I have eight tabs open on my laptop, the majority of which are Booking.com links to Singaporean hotels. One is a Google Doc, in which I write these mediocre words. I’d like to say this image doesn’t reflect my usual Friday night but in truth, it’s my favourite kind. That’s the thing about having a kid: you spend a lot of time enjoying doing nothing all. by. yourself.
It’s this flip in perspective I’ve valued so much in becoming a parent; the idea that doing nothing is a real something. The whole ‘I really ought to be doing something productive right now’ thing falls by the wayside when you have kids. These days, I consider laying on the floor of my son’s room, making revving sounds and being told off for “doing it wrong” a substantial box-ticker.
I want to share with you an uncut recount of what a typical weekend for me - a 32-year-old Aussie mum, wife, Sydney local - looks like. And no, it’s not spiked with sexy date nights or Netflix marathons, or long brunches or even a leisurely coffee stop. Being a parent requires a great deal of planning ahead, and a whole lot of taking the easy route to get home faster and get back on that couch.
Saturday:
Brace yourselves: I get to sleep in, and you better believe I’m celebrating this win. I am woken at 9am with a hot coffee (thanks husband) and the loud chatter of a little voice. Today is ME day.
The boys whisk up the road to grab a haircut. I enjoy some much needed R&R or in my case, F&V (folding and vacuuming).
I venture to the shops and head straight to my favourite wrap joint for a chicken-avocado caesar. I then enjoy a tepid cruise through Kmart to snag some curtain holdbacks and shorts for my son. The nail salon is my final stop to get my two week-old Shellac removed.
The evening is spent cheering on the Olympic men’s marathon runners, slurping down a bowl of slow-cooked spaghetti bolognese (thanks again, husband) and a glass of pinot gris.
I’m on the tailend of bedtime duty so after his bath, my son and I catch up on some snuggles over a couple of books.
Once he’s down, the husband and I mop, clean dishes, make-up our bed, and laugh over emerging memes of Raygun’s breaking performance. IYKYK.
Lost in a sea of TikToks, I finally hit lights out at 11pm.
Sunday:
I trade my Saturday sleep in for a 5:55am wake-up call, specifically in the form of a yell from my kid asking for assistance on the toilet. Happy Sunday.
Two hours of lazing on the couch later, Paw Patrol running, my son is ready for breakfast. He requests a peanut butter sandwich. I oblige, eyes half closed as I grind myself a shot worth of coffee beans.
Hubby is off on a freelance gig today, so the primary parent role is handballed back to me. Hair thrown in a messy bun, I push a 16 kg child and pram full of snacks down to our local cafe.
“Small oat flat white and a babychino, please”. Thankfully, the marshmallows were flowing (in as much as the milk was spilling…) A few selfies and “cheers” later, we stroll to the playground.
I catch wind of my appearance, dressed in a second-hand cardigan and oval frames, as I push my little guy haphazardly with one hand on a swing - an image giving hungover Brooklyn nanny.
It’s lunch: 2-minute noodles, stringy cheese and a handful of strawberries. Go on, judge away; it’s his equivalent of Michelin star dining.
Our afternoon is spent trading toy trains for memory snap, magnets for toilet paper rolls (yes, he found something to create with them). Oh, and more Paw Patrol.
The first of many tantrums kicks off at 4pm, aptly timed for dinner prep. That’s what happens when you wake before the crack of dawn - there’s less gas in the tank come sundown. Toddlers like to remind us of this fact through rage.
We manage to survive into the evening, just as Hassan secures gold in the same marathon for women. Clean, full, drowsy.
I creep him into bed, his eyes glazed. The sound of a fake stream rumbles again. With little enthusiasm does he look to daycare tomorrow, so I try a trick. I kissed the back of his hand, and said “Whenever you need me, press this kiss to your cheek, and I’ll be right there.” He’s out.
Robe on, I reach for a sugar hit. New tabs are open, this time for summer dresses suited to a Singaporean escape.
I can finally breathe, and yet, I miss him already.