When the cat’s away…

What happens when Daddy Pig goes snowboarding and leaves me with three kids?

Who let the cats out?

I always assumed I was the cat.

Judging by how the weekend is going, I’m definitely not.

This doesn’t mean Daddy Pig is the cat either. (I’ve seen him try to get the girls out for swimming on a Saturday morning.)

It just means that cat or no cat, the mice do what the f*** they like.

Pain. No gain.

‘Is it easier or harder without him?’ asks a friend, as I struggle to de-coat a 5 year old, chunky baby and rogue preschooler all at once.

‘Neither, really,’ I say. ‘It’s just the same, excruciating, weekend-with-your-kids-pain.’

She nods.

And that’s the truth of it really. Because I can do it without Daddy Pig. I know the routine inside out. There’s no inconsistent parenting from two parents. Just inconsistent parenting from one. And the house is tidier. SO much tidier.

Amen to that.

Mum. Barista. Taxi driver.

But it’s just a bit relentless doing it on my own.

I can’t sneak off for a rest. And if I want to get a quick coffee from Costa, we ALL have to go. Which moves it into day trip territory. JUST TO GET A FLIPPING COFFEE.

Likewise, we ALL have to go to gymnastics. I breastfeed The Boy with No Name in the car park whilst Godivy puts a traffic cone on her head.

Because, well, why wouldn’t you?

Three against one.

And I realise how seriously outnumbered I am. (Even nursery carers have a maximum ratio of 1:3 and they’re qualified at this stuff).

I know it. And the girls know it.

Plus they’ve sensed my fear. When I foolishly gave them a pep talk about how they needed to help Mummy out this weekend. Because, and I quote, ‘I am on my OWN.‘ Talk about show my hand.

Ever since, they’ve taken turns to do the complete opposite. Bicker. Cry. Make jokes at my expense.

When did 3 and 5 year olds learn sarcasm?

To be fair, I’m sure they’re no worse than usual. It’s just that I’m the only poor sod in the audience.

And this weekend there’s no interval.


It hasn’t been all bad though.

I’ve indulged my need to constantly swear by cunningly doing it in french. You can learn a few useful phrases here. It’s clearly been compiled by a mum whose husband went snowboarding.

I’ve also learned how to do a french plait. Get me. Well, it’s an inside out plait, according to my friend. But it still counts. Because I said it does.

And finally, I’ve drunk gin from a can before 5.00 PM.



Tried your hand at a bit of solo parenting? Got any tips? Leave a comment below or pop over to Surviving Life and Motherhood. I won’t judge you. Obviously. I drink gin out of a can…

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