(*With apologies for blatant and shameless plagiarism of idea from the always-brilliant – but never more so than in this post – Belgian Waffle.)
May your au pair leave you and your three wild children to fend for yourselves.
May you quickly realise that you have more children than you can manage.
May your son be so distraught that he tells you that he wished you had left instead.
May you agree with him.
May you organise, at great logistical difficulty, a Daddy and Son day at a waterpark to try to console said distraught son, and may he break his nose after five minutes there.
May your overriding reaction to this event not be worry or anxiety, but rather annoyance at having One More Fucking Thing To Deal With.
May your daughter retaliate against being sent to her room for picking the living room wallpaper, by ripping strips of wallpaper off the bedroom wall.
May your day generally start with a small voice announcing, through the darkness, and mere inches from your face, that its owner needs a poo.
May you organise a babysitter so you can try to get some work done, and may she text you THREE HOURS after she fails to arrive to say that she has just woken up.
May you also have arranged for that babysitter to mind your children on the day you are going to move apartment, and may you find yourself weeping into your cereal-covered hair.
May you wonder if the real reason she didn’t show up was because your son, upon meeting her, asked her why she was so fat.
May you have what can only be described as a Bastard of a Week and consequently – and unintentionally – find yourself ordering tequila shots at a bar at 1am on a Friday night .
May you have to bring your son to a children’s party at 9 the following morning.
May you be so hungover that you actually vomit in the middle of the children’s party.
May you give your son a dollar to leave the party early. May he pocket the dollar and run off.
May the only way you can get your child to leave the party venue after the party has ended be to tell him that you’re so sick that you vomited. May you then be standing (somewhat hunched) at the taxi queue and bump into a nice person you met at the party, to whom you had confided you were “slightly” hungover. May you child inform her – and everyone else in the queue – that you JUST PUKED.
May you live in a city where it would never cross anyone’s mind to offer help as you struggle down / up steps with a (very) heavily laiden buggy.
May you live in a city of many steps.
May your baby’s reaction to things she doesn’t like you doing be to pull the hair from your head and bite whatever part of your body is closest. May there be many, many things she doesn’t like you doing.
May you have three small, wild, children, and move apartment.
May you introduce your 3 year old to the lovely sweet old lady who is to be your immediate neighbour for the next 2 years, and may your daughter, by way of greeting, lift up her dress to reveal no knickers.
May you know with horrific certainty that you will one day look back on these days with fondness and nostalgia.