I bet Victoria Beckham doesn’t do this

I’ve neglected you, my friends. I apologise.

Half term has pretty much summed up the glamour of being a mum and juxtaposes the blissful week that went before.

We took advantage of being able to take Big out of Pre-School and prefixed the week off with a week at Centre Parcs. Prior to having the pixies, I wrongly assumed Center Parcs to be an instrument of torture, much like Butlins or Maplins (those under 35 won’t get that reference, in which case, you’re no longer my friend). All jolly campers and *eurgh* ORGANISED FUN. Two words that should never sit together. I digress. It was a lovely week and as far as I know, it’s the only place you can neck a glass of wine and eat a reasonably decent meal in peace while your children clobber others in the soft play.

I’d made the decision that I’d potty train Medium while simultaneously weaning her off her dummy during half term so she could go back to Pre-School in Big Girl Pants. By Big Girl Pants, I mean boys’ pants with Buzz Lightyear and the Gruffalo on because retailers assume that girls can’t possibly like cowboys, cars and dinosaurs.

I hate potty training with a vengeance. I don’t really know why. It’s just a week but by the end of it, my own voice sounds like nails being scraped down a blackboard. If I hear myself saying, “Medium, do you need your potty? Try for Mummy” one more time, I might scream.

Inevitably, there have been accidents. While scrubbing a number two (seriously, how does such a small body hold that much sh1t?!) from our leather sofa, I couldn’t help muttering that I bet Victoria Beckham never has to do this.

As is usually the case when trying to teach your child how to go to the toilet without it ending up in their pants, the week was spent at home, dishing out multiple stickers as Big has decided she should get a sticker for wiping her own bottom. The pixies have found their own entertainment though, by exploring the mound of soil that’s been delivered for some trees we’re planting. Thoughtfully, they’ve trudged that through the house and in my paranoia about anything brown, I’ve carried on scrubbing.

Why won’t anyone give me stickers? Ones that I can trade in for nice, large glasses of Malbec and a takeaway. I bet Victoria Beckham gets those. I want those.

I bet Victoria Beckham doesn’t do this