In her first column for TheLatch—, Sydney Instagram personality Amy Gerard introduces her life as a stay-at-home mother-of-three with a brilliant and chaotic day-in-the-life.
As by way introduction, my name is Amy Gerard. I am married to Rhian and I am a stay at home mum of three. Charli, four, Bobby, two and Kobe, six-months, were all blasted out of me within three years and eight months, so to say I’ve got my hands full would be an understatement.
Once upon a time I worked as a paralegal, but I’m always quite perplexed now when people ask me, “what else do you?” after I tell them I’m a stay at home mum-of-three.
Sorry, I beg your pardon? You mean after I wake continuously throughout the night because my toddler is convinced sharks are biting him through his cot? What do I also do after my baby wakes from the sound of a dog barking in China and Charli has cheese-rolled herself off the bed again? And I’m just meant to be cool, calm and collected when Bobby wakes at assholey o’clock (that’s 5.00am) and wakes the whole house with him?
My husband has “needed to be in at work early” for the last three years, so he hightails it the fuck out the door by 6.30am and I’m left to fend for myself, and then… there’s 3 kids to get dressed.
One is a diva and will try on multiple outfits; the middle has serial killer-tendencies and will headbutt himself into T-shirts and thrash about while you put shorts on him, and the baby will lie there to be dressed and wait for you to pick him up to regurgitate whatever milk he’s just had.
Repeat that last step about five times and finally, all kids are dressed and ready for breakfast. It is 7.00am.
Charli will have toast cut into triangles with no crust on, served on a pink plate. Bobby will have two bowls of cereal, two pieces of toast, a banana, a yoghurt, a muesli bar, a fruit platter and then he’ll eat Charli’s toast, too.
There will be a civil war between siblings over the toast and I’ll try refereeing on the sides, using my legs to protect Charli from Bobby’s claws whilst shovelling porridge into Kobe’s mouth because he’s started chanting foreign orders at me in ‘scream’. Hair will get pulled, tears will stream, food will be thrown, the place will look like there’s been a colony of bin chickens on the loose and Bobby nine time out of ten will end up in his room. It is 8.00am.
After cleaning what looks like a frat house after-party, I’ll use excessive amounts of antiseptic wipes all over the kitchen and put on one of the 13 loads of washing I’ll have to do that day. I will then start packing a bag…
The next three hours are crucial. If you’re anything like me and have birthed a jacked-up metaphorical speed junkie called Bobby, who has more energy than an 18-year-old raver, then you too know how important it is to drain those batteries. Kobe ‘I’ll never have a routine’ Gerard gets thrown in the car, along with the two toddlers, and off to a park we will go.
Both boys will shit themselves on arrival and Charli will think she’s got a UTI. It’s 30 degrees outside with 99% humidity, and conveniently you have broken out in a rash to 60% of your body.
Now, I will find somewhere to sit down and throw snacks at them from a distance. Even though they ate an hour ago they are ravenous, and with their enthusiasm for snacks, would act like they haven’t been fed in a week.
Bobby will try to steal multiple scooters. Charli just wants to watch kinder surprise unpacking videos on your phone, and you’ve forgotten that third kid whose name escapes you in the car. It is 11.30am.
Back home for lunch. You missed a spot of Weet-Bix on the floor and now 1.5 million ants live with you, too. Make them lunch, watch as Bobby eats Charli’s again. Text Rhian to tell him he needs a second and possibly a third job because you can’t keep on top of their food intake and Bobby possibly has a tape worm.
Hang out loads of washing, try sync their nap times but because Kobe only sleeps in six-minute increments in the car here and there he isn’t tired. Put two down. Kobe gets undivided attention. Play play, sensory, boob, coochie-coochie, sleep. Have 15 minutes of free time in which you try to reply to friends’ texts from 2019, return calls and attempt to maintain a social life. Bring washing in. Hang more out. Prep dinner. It is 3.00pm.
Everyone wakes up. Charli wants to be carried around like a fetus, Bobby is so well-rested that he’s actually risen as Satan and is trying to fight you because you won’t let him play inside the car on a 40-degree day, and Kobe has regurgitated his lunch all over himself, the rug, and half the lounge.
Put everyone in front of some sort of screen. Strip beds. Remake. Nosedive across the room to rescue Kobe from an affectionate body slam from Bobby. Throw your back out. Walk into the backyard and scream “FUCK” into the air with clenched fists. Go back inside like nothing happened. It is 5.30pm.
Serve dinner. No one eats it. Go back outside for another “FUCK” scream but forget you have Kobe on the boob and he now has PTSD. Everyone in the bath. Try to protect Kobe’s life whilst also stopping the toddlers from using his wiener as a shuttlecock in their game of invisible badminton.
Chase kids around the house disguising your rage with light-hearted humour and turn it into a game. Somehow dress them all for bed. Read books, sing songs, and it’s bedtime. It is 7.00pm.
Back out to the kitchen to assess the mess. Decide it would be quicker to douse the whole room in alcohol and set it on fire. Husband arrives home. Pretend to feign interest in his work politics, eat dinner, scroll numbly through Instagram feed. Fall into bed and a short coma before starting the last 24 hours all over again.
So yeah. In hindsight maybe I should be looking for extra work to take on.
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