Hi there, readers. This is another one of those slightly over-share-y type posts so if you are prudish, easily offended or my dad, look away now.
No bedroom door.
This is also a story of the perils of a town-house where the master bedroom has no door. Seriously, our bedroom has no door. It’s at the top of the stairs, on the third floor, it’s a bit lofty. It looks cute, but I remember thinking, “hmmm… this might be problematic for the old marital relations“, when we viewed the house. But we’d just moved back to Australia from the UK and needed a place to live, so I pushed that worry away and blithely congratulated myself on the fact that my kids know how to stay in their beds.
I was smug.
Now, I’m not gonna lie, I was smug. Smug, smug, smug. After I had my first child, Ollie, I turned into one of those obsessive, over-protective parents. I just did. He didn’t even sniff chocolate till he was three-years-old. He ate all the vegetables. I was all over the sodium, the sugar, the additives. I mean, when my Dad gave him a Malteser, I s-t the bed. Grandma and Grandpa gave him Coco Pops? I took that like a declaration of war. If he was at a soft-play centre I was right there having an actual nervous break-down in case the padding wasn’t padded enough.
I monitored everything. I observed everything. And I agonised over everything. There was most certainly no getting into our bed every night once he was in his own big-boy bed. And my firstborn son went along with all of this and complied with it and in my head I was a supremely superior parent. Oh, your kid bites other people/won’t eat his dinner/refuses to sleep in his bed? Well, you must be doing it wrong, I thought, merrily judging away. I really did.