Am I an adult or do I have super powers?

I’m an adult. Obviously. I’m an adult.

That said, on occasion, I really don’t want to be. It’s not the desire to be young again, although we all know I wouldn’t kick that unlikely prospect in the face should the fairy godmother ever come knocking. Youth would bring some shiny, sag-free benefits. I wouldn’t double take at the poly filer in B&Q as an answer to the lines on my face for a start, nor would I feel like I was getting up in the middle of the night every morning despite the rare occasion of a 7.30am lie in.

It’s just from time to time it would be nice to remove the lead weighted jacket of responsibility. To boldly strut around the joint with a T-shirt branded: ‘Turn around now, be gone with you, I have nothing -no knowledge, no answers, no snacks, no additional brain capacity’

Not having to think ahead, or act the responsible, organisation obsessed grown up for just a few minutes. Shouting “Jeepers Creepers” doesn’t quite have the same satisfying ring to it as “Holy F**king F**kity F*ck F*ck” does when you’ve stepped on a storm trooper for the third time in a day. In the same way that hiding in the utility room pretending to eat grapes doesn’t quite fill you with the same gratification as freely loading Wispa Bites into your mouth at 10am.

I would love to truthfully tell my Son why I was a little bit upset in the car the other week (like the joker on crack) because some (real life d*ck of a joker) naughty man was driving (right up my a*se) too close to mummy and is now being silly (having a right f**king laugh) waving his (middle) finger at me. Instead of shouting ‘You absolute beast of a fanny’ out the window, I turn the music on, sing to little mix and wave as he drives by.

99% of the time, I’m like any other parent parading the street; I’m the adult, I’m the all-important knowledge provider of which shelf the ham resides, I’m the Lego instruction manual and I’m the ongoing battery supplier for every size of toy. 

On occasion, however, when the calm has been slowly sucked out of me, like that that teeny tiny baby sock under the sofa that once broke the hoover (seriously a sock? Yes, my friends a sock can break a hoover). When the reason has voluntarily taken itself off to sit on the naughty step because the naughty step is a blast.

I get a feeling.

The special super power of morphing into a two-year-old takes over, a power that can take over your body uncontrollably but mostly when your kids have taken control of your mind. Normally timed around 8am for the school run or when we all need to be somewhere: work, school or out of the road before we’re under the wheel of that bus.

More recently than I am proud to admit, I couldn’t take the relentless dinosaur squawks any longer. The simple task of tying up my toddler’s hair in a pleasing pony tail resembled nightmare on elf-street. Small people running, screams, hiding in the unlikeliest and smallest of places and general disarray. The ponytail wasn’t even for my benefit. I wasn’t getting angry with my hair, nor was it stuck to the snot on my face forcing me to collapse to the floor like I had been struck by lightning.  After the 8^th hair holding race around the living room I gave in and allowed the inner two-year-old super villain to burst out of my body, ruffle the hair in question all over the tiny persons face voicing the mature words: “Fine let the bogies suck your whole head of hair up your nostrils, I don’t care”.

On reflection, I am not proud. I know this reaction wasn’t very adult. I also know tearing the Barney Bears head into crumbs wasn’t the correct adult response for when my son couldn’t possibly eat a Barney Bear whose head wasn’t attached to its body. I also know that throwing a pair of trousers down the stairs after the 29^th time of asking them to be put on cannot be directly sourced from the parenting 101 manual.

I’m not proud of this power that can occasionally burst through during the simplest, yet impossible to complete without a circus, tasks. Tasks such as putting on a sock or getting in a car seat. The simmering under the surface guilt and surprise on the kids’ faces can fleetingly block this power, but when all is out of control and wine o’ clock is hours away, let that power within win out as sometimes morphing into a two-year-old super villain is the only way to get you through. 

Written by Vee @maxedoutmumma