Something funny happened today. I think I was recognised. Not for any of the multitude of things I do like beauty, blogging, writing, socialising, school runs. Nope. This was new.

I ran into someone that I used to know. I was flying by before I saw him and was overwhelmed with recognition and mortification all at the same time when I realised it was 8.30am and I had baby spew on my pants, hair hadn’t seen a hairbrush since saturday and my eyebags had eyebags.

Then the funny thing happened. He kinda half smirked – half head tilted at me as I flew past. Wtf did that mean? The old me would have stopped for a catch up and given myself a chance to figure out what he was thinking when he performed such a manouvre. I kept scooting on however, solely because I was scarlet for me velour tracksuit bottoms that I wouldn’t usually wear to the bog for the last load but this morning thaught were a good idea to throw on to go grab milk. I didn’t stall but the gammy interaction had me perturbed. I couldn’t get the awkward smirk/sympathy tilt out of my head. Was it that obvious? Did I look that bad? Did I need an answer to that? Of course I looked that bad. I was tiptoeing around the house in the dark at 4am singing the chorus of Ireland’s Call to a wailing baby and practising exactly what I was going to say when I rang in the morning to book my hystorectomy.

So he felt sorry for me? Thats when I undertook to stalk him on Facebook and would ya look at that! He too is the ‘demented parent of a teething baby’!!! I click on his profile picture and there is his lovely wife in a pair of velour tracksuit pants all of her own.

Phew! The look wasn’t rude. It was recognition. He clearly knows the haggard look of ‘motherhood’ too well. He was possibly half smirking because we could probably both remember once upon a different life when I wouldn’t step passed the threshold of home without a full face of make up and all we had to worry about was whose round it was next? And the head tilt was a sympathy nod. An ‘I know what your going through’ offering.

So as it turns out ‘the demented mother of a teething baby’ is very easily recognisable. Here’s how you can catch a glimps of one of these common creatures;

She is the one in the mis-matched trackies with spew on the shoulder and snot on the sleeve.

She is the one with hair that looks like she was accidentally plugged in.

She is the one rocking back and forth on her chair even when she is not holding a baby because at this stage in the game its second nature.

You may meet her every time you are in Tesco and she is always holding pain relief and new bibs.

She is the one that makes a cup of tea and has it half drank before she realises she didn’t boil the kettle.

She is the one that nearly signed up to Airtricity just so the salesman would stay and occupy the other 2 kids while she settled the teething baby.

She is the one that hung out a dirty load of washing to dry and didnt realise for four hours she hadn’t actually washed them yet.

She is the one prying a child’s mouth open  and jamming a hand in there in search of the little white bastard that is causing all this heartache.

She is the one parenting her other kids with biscuits just to make it through the afternoon alive. She can be observed pegging custard creams at such problems as tantrums, hunger, boredom, speaking,  moving, breathing…..

She is the one driving aimlessly around town trying to settle her screaming child. If the same car has circled and passed you four times, chances are, you have just witnessed the ‘demented mother of a teething child’.

She is the one thanking God fourteen times a day for sending her a life support machine, more commonly known as her Tassimo coffee maker and can be seen sporting eyes like flying saucers.

She is the one who denied her husband the oppurtunity of ‘the snip’ on the grounds he was too young but seriously contemplates a radical hystorectomy every time their teething baby stirs in the night.

Imagine my frustration at realising that a ‘demented father of a teething baby’ is not as easily recognisable as his female counterpart, hence my confusion when I ran into my old buddy all bright eyed and bushy tailed.

The ‘demented father of a teething baby’ sleeps in the spare room, you see for fear one of his super sperm would jump into one of his wife’s unmanned orifices, impregnate her and put her through this ever again!

If any of you are trying to spot a ‘demented father of a teething baby’ there is in fact only one tell tale sign. That is the giant wheelbarrow that he is carrying his balls around in because they haven’t seen the light of day in more than a while.