Lindsay Woods: ‘I still flinch at the thought of eight pairs of eyes turned towards me, like a perspiring ensemble cast from ‘Children of the Corn’’

When you have children, you are concerned with a myriad of things, writes Lindsay Woods.

Are they warm enough? Are they too warm? Are they hungry? Did I feed them too much? Is it just gas or are they in pain? What if they really are in pain? Do I ring my mother or go straight to A&E? No, wait… it’s just gas.

This anxiety-riddled inner monologue rages around your head at the speed of Wile E Coyote after he has ingested a six-pack of energy drinks and snorted several pixie sticks up his nose. It plays every day, on a continual loop, torturing your brain and erasing any semblance of rational thinking you may have possessed prior to procreation.

You speak to your spouse with violent eyes. Combined with an aggressive head-tilt and strained neck, jerked in the direction of the child you have finally gotten to sleep with the aid of the VTech lady, a bouncy chair and a dead leg from contorting yourself into some agonising position just so they can hold your hand. Your husband has not aided this transition to peaceful slumber and you want him to know of your raging displeasure. Through the underrated art of mime.

Yet, you muddle along. The thought that you might actually break the baby begins to dissipate. Primarily, because the ever-growing result of your gene pool tackles the cat/table/contents of the kitchen cupboard like the entire defence line of the Irish rugby team. In between shovelling indeterminate quantities of Cheerios into their mouths which they have located under the kitchen table. Which you haven’t swept beneath for several weeks. Because you are too busy babyproofing every single sharp edge/electrical socket/cat in your home for your unrelenting, miniature ball of energy.

Then, in the blink of an eye, they are upright, functioning individuals. With their own thoughts and… opinions.

In the ensuing years, I can guarantee that within your parenting remit you will have to witness or engage in some, or all, of the below checklist. I know this because I have lived it. I also know, you will look fondly upon your time with the dulcet tones of the VTech lady with a wistful expression reserved for a montage of memories in a Lifetime movie. Cling to those thoughts. They will see you through. Until the teenage years… I can’t help you there. It’s every man and woman for themselves in that Desert Storm of raging hormones, tears and incessant exclamations of, “I HATE YOU!!!!!” But we don’t have to think about that yet. Meanwhile….

Kids celebrate everything.

Everything. Our cat’s birthday has fallen on various different months of the year. Due to the fact that I don’t know when Satan’s Handmaiden’s birthday actually is. Kids are like basic celebrities or wannabe internet personalities who create an occasion for the opening of an envelope. They want to eat cake and have their photo taken. Then make a show of themselves before they leave the table weeping and fall into bed. In My Little Pony pyjamas.

They celebrate EVERYTHING.

Births and deaths. We once attended a funeral for our neighbours’ goldfish (RIP Tiddler). There was a hearse (remote control car), Tiddler strapped to the top in a matchbox as he made a slightly jerky procession to the ceremony. There were hymns, rent-a-crowd wailers and a florid eulogy before he was laid to rest.

They hold grudges.

There is no greater slight than a kid who is not presented with a party bag of tat at the end of a two-hour stint sweating in a plastic-coated indoor playground of doom. I still flinch at the thought of eight pairs of eyes turned towards me, like a perspiring ensemble cast from Children of the Corn. It still haunts me to this day. As does the amount of money I spent on a claw machine to give them all a go in lieu of the forgotten party bags.

They remember EVERYTHING.

It is a cruel irony that your capacity for remembering where you put your car keys is rivalled by the encyclopaedic catalogue which is your child’s memory. They will use this to test you. You will not defeat them. Embrace this nugget and you may salvage some of your dignity and the upper hand. Some of it, not all. They are crafty foxes who smell your advancing years and decay and use it to their advantage to confuse you. I could go on, but I’m pretty sure you’re currently headed in the same direction as I am. To the attic, to root out the VTech lady from some quality time, ‘Let’s count to ten…’

- @thegirlinthepaper