I just told my children that it was past their bedtime and therefore, my ears had turned off and I could no longer hear them. These are the measures I am forced to take on a Friday night when we all have ‘flu and are utterly miserable.
And in turn, this is what you get for NaBlo.
Whose stupid idea was this?
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Manflu has stricken the household and we’ve all fallen down into a great heap of aching joints and miserableness.
On top of that, my cat is staging her very own #occupy protest.
Be assured that #occupyworkspace is actually nicer than #occupyveronicasneck and #occupythelap, because there is less licking.
There. I said it. My cat likes to lick my nose. I don’t share her joy.
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I was awoken this morning by the screeching of Elmo coming from the other room. Somewhere around 1am, my son had climbed into bed with me, leaving Nathan to sleep on the couch and my daughter alone in her room.
Considering Nathan doesn’t watch Elmo and my son still had his toenails jammed firmly into my stomach, I only had one suspect. A certain five year old girl.
Of course, knowing that my daughter was awake, I panicked that my alarm hadn’t gone off because my phone was plugged into the charger. She never wakes up before me on a school morning. Of a weekend, yes, but a school morning? Never.
A quick glance at my alarm fixed my panic, but by then Elmo had woken my son, who climbed out of bed and promptly overflowed his nappy, leaking urine all down his legs and the floor. Despite being an hour before get up time, it appeared that we were all awake.
This is the problem with small children. They are unpredictable and make you panic over missed alarms.
I suppose I should be thankful, for the urine and the demands that dragged me out of bed, because I’m sitting here now, realising that my alarm never did go off.
Huh.
I guess that was lucky afterall.
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My daughter says
:No one would play with me today:
and my heart breaks into a million tiny pieces and I’ve run out of the good glue, so I’m left sitting on the floor, trying to put myself back together.
The hardest part about school is not living it yourself.
No, it’s parenting your own child (blood of your blood, body of your soul) through it and knowing that it gets better and worse, better and worse, like a fucked up see saw.
Later, during a conversation, I hear that two girls a grade older, with pretty names, played with her at recess and I am grateful to them. So grateful to these two girls who I have never met, that they played with my girl and made her feel included.
Quirky children are not easy, but I know in myself that we wouldn’t be able to home school.
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It’s not that we’ve run out of food – we haven’t. It’s that we’ve run out of easy food. No bread, no ham, no sandwich meat. No tortillas, no tomatoes, or cucumbers, or carrots.
This is what I tell myself as I wander around the house aimlessly, looking for something for breakfast. My stomach is flip flopping between hungry and don’t you dare eat or you’ll vomit (again) and all I can think about is avocado on toast, or tomato salad – neither of which I can currently make.
Obviously this would all be easier if the supermarket wasn’t so far away and if I could actually be bothered to go food shopping today.
Which I can’t.
+++
This is real life. Not prettied up for public consumption, with sparkling skirting boards and perfectly dressed children. My daughter has wildly tangled hair and dirt under her fingernails and my son refuses to eat anything. My fridge is empty looking and the mayonaise is past its use by date. I just found a dead tomato, weeping liquid into a drip tray.
+++
There is a pantry full of things to make and eat. Beans, pasta, noodles, rice, canned tomatoes. Staples that we never run low on. There is a freezer containing meat and I have two kilos of chicken feet, that I keep forgetting to make into stock.
I count my blessings every time I complain that we’ve run out of ham, or there is no swiss cheese left.
I am so lucky, to be able to complain about this.
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