Someone steals your food from out of your hand as you’re lifting it up to your mouth, and you don’t punch them in the face.
Someone presses your nipple in public and says “BOOP” and it doesn’t count as sexual assault.
You’re less bothered by wee, poo, sick, bogies, toe-jam and other bodily functions than you ever thought possible.
You forget what grown up telly is like, but know all of the words to the songs from Mr. Bloom and Octonauts Creature Reports.
You’ll happily walk along the road singing at the top of your voice for your child’s entertainment, and don’t give the tiniest shit what people think.
Thoughts of exotic holidays turn to “God, it’d be such a pain in the arse to go there”, instead you spend hours trying to work out the logistics of trying to get the family to Peppa Pig World, because your daughter would shit her pants with excitement if you took her there.
You’ve adapted your walking pace to take bizarre half steps to accommodate your toddler, but still find yourself walking like it even when alone.
Someone offers you the chance to lick their dinner off of their hands.
Every waking moment is spent in various stages of anxiety and panic about whether you’re DOING. IT. RIGHT.
Whilst doing…ahem…”grown up things”, no matter how ‘in-the-moment’ you are, there’s still a tiny part of your brain that’s on constant alert for you child walking in. It will be this way until they leave home.