Tactical binning and little white lies: 4 'hacks' exhausted parents will relate to.

I am firmly of the belief that there is ‘tired’, then there is ‘parent tired’, and the two really cannot be compared. 

BC (before children), I would often complain about being tired. Usually, it was because I’d gotten seven instead of eight hours of uninterrupted shut-eye, or had chosen to stay out till the early hours doing the things that I used to do (drinking expensive cocktails? Dancing? I actually have no idea; it’s been that long). 

I now want to slap that person in the face while yelling: ‘TIRED? YOU DON’T KNOW TIRED.’ Because nothing can truly prepare you for, or compare, to the exquisite agony of parenting exhaustion. Of sleep deprivation so deep that you can’t recall when you slept longer than three hours at a time.

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It's the kind of exhaustion that will see you binning that Tupperware container that you cannot get the bolognese stains out of, or ‘accidentally’ pushing a bunch of dust and god-knows-what-else under the couch, because you’re too damn tired to get the Dyson.

I have done both these things and so much more. Here are the four things that exhausted parents everywhere can relate to... and have probably done.

1. Run the washing machine again, and again and again.

Washing is one of the banes of my life. I dislike it immensely. Unfortunately, in a family of five, this disdain just doesn’t fly. 

I have a not infeasible fear that if I was to abandon the washing for any longer than about three days, we’d end up losing the dog, possibly even a child, in an avalanche of dirty clothes. 

I am very good at getting the washing INTO the washing machine. I’m even good at hearing the ‘DING’ when it’s done. It’s just the actual removal of the washing from the machine and transporting it to the line that defeats me. 

When you’re so tired that your vision is blurring, the thought of wrangling wet clothes out of a basket and onto the line is nauseating. And so, shamefully, I must admit that there have been days – many, many days over the years – where the washing hasn’t made it out of the machine. And because it starts to smell weird after it’s sat for too long, I’ve just put the wash cycle through again. And again. Plucking out the essentials and throwing them straight in the dryer (oh, the shame).

2. Tactical chucking.

I hinted at this earlier: I've been known to tactically throw things in the rubbish rather than clean them. 

There, I said it. I am not proud of this fact but sometimes a bolognese stain is enough to destabilise your mental health. I still vividly recall discovering a thermos in the bottom of my son’s schoolbag after two weeks of holidays. Every part of me said I should get out the heavy-duty dishwashing liquid and scourer that mouldy mac-and-cheese debris like the strong, capable woman that I was. 

But for the exhausted mother-of-three (including a newborn), it was a step too far, and after gagging at the smell, I threw that thermos in the bin and never acknowledged its presence again. Yes, it was wasteful, but sometimes, self-preservation must come first, and a mouldy thermos, second.

3. Little white lies.

White lies are a parenting rite of passage. This is not to say that telling them is the right thing to do, but when the delirium of exhaustion hits you, it’s the only way to go. 

When my kids were younger, they were absolutely convinced that the park had opening and closing hours. I cannot exactly recall telling them this, but clearly, it must have been done at some stage and who was I to tell them otherwise? It was an extremely effective way of ending park play at a reasonable hour. “You have to be five to drink lemonade” was another goodie that I must have pulled out of my hat at some stage, as my kids, now older than five, still seem to believe it’s the law. 

Even now, I can still be a little fast and loose with things like opening hours and certain activities, though I’ve had to adjust the age (“Sadly guys, you need to be 12 to do that. I know, I’m just as disappointed as you that I can’t spend $58,586 on a five-minute VR experience.”) 

Again, I am not condoning lying but in the pits of exhaustion, a parent's gotta do what a parent's gotta do.

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4. Taking the path of least resistance.

Fight or flight takes on a different meaning to the exhausted parent. 

There's no fighting, only flighting (is that even a word?), and that flighting looks like choosing the path of least resistance. Your kid wants to watch the same episode of Bluey 15 times over? I’ll allow it. Socks as gloves and a pair of board shorts with gumboots in the middle of winter? Wear a jumper and let’s roll. 

I learnt many years ago to pick my battles wisely and to let the rest slide. It’s probably why my nine-year-old is currently getting around in a pair of bike shorts, an Oodie and a pair of Crocs in the middle of winter. And why my five-year-old insists that fish fingers, steamed veggies and oven chips are the ‘best dinner ever’. 

I haven’t gone into battle over those things and have saved my energy for the really important stuff. And we’ve all survived unscathed... thus far.

I should end by saying that acute exhaustion has an endpoint. While some semblance of fatigue is what we parents are saddled with for life, the really, intense sleep deprivation of the early years ends, eventually. 

Take it from a mum-of-three whose kids never enjoyed sleeping: one day, you'll sleep through the night again and you’ll probably appreciate it more than you ever thought possible.

Naomi Cotterill is a mum of three, a teacher and a freelance content creator.

Feature Image: Supplied.

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