THE UPS AND DOWNS OF QUESTION TIME

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Time presses on and so we have entered the world of three. It's great isn't it, this little person with their own thoughts and ideas, their personality blossoming every day. Seeing the world through their eyes, passionately curious about everything that we stop seeing in adulthood and that we take for granted in the day to day. Sometimes there is nothing I love more than sneaking in a coffee date with my little guy,  conversation pretty much flowing. Ok so it might not be about world politics or debating the latest must see film, but it's enjoyable all the same and I love that he wants to learn. Why? What? When? How? seems to be the beginning of every sentence these days. Sometimes I feel proud by the type of questions he's asking me, that some of my random knowledge is being rapidly absorbed by this boy following me.

But then there are times when it grates. I sigh internally, when I have to repeat the same answer for the thirteenth time because the first twelve identical answers I give don't seem to be sufficient. Or perhaps F chooses the perfect time to ask "what are you talking about mummy" on repeat, as my dentist attempts for the fourth time to check my teeth without being interrupted by my 'just wait a minute sweetie', or 'why not read a book' or 'I'm just talking to the dentist lovely'.

Before I had F, there would be times that I would see a mama in a shop looking agitated, toddler in tow asking – what I thought to be very endearing questions – and the answer would be returned in a sharp bark of a voice. There in that moment I would judge this woman, thinking bad of her for speaking that way to her kid. Well last week I was that woman, locked in a battle of tactical warfare and losing. After not much sleep and with stuff on my mind, I rushed from aisle to aisle attempting a supermarket sweep.

Hungry, tired and in desperate need of caffeine as I tried to mentally calculate the cost of all of the items   lining my basket. I was faced with a torrent of questions, all bombarding me without pause, each one jading my ability to think clearly. I snapped at F mid sentence "If you could just be quiet for one minute so I can think!" and there it was. As I raised my head and pushed my mop of frazzled hair out of my face I saw the look. That fleeting disapproving look cast in her eyes from the woman standing not so far from me and I crumbled. Embarrassed, she scuttled off as I pulled myself together and headed for the tills while lathering F in attention to push the guilt away.

So next time you see that crazy frazzled mama, agitated with child in tow, try not to judge. It's great being a good parent, but it's impossible to be a perfect one.