How not to do a Monday, and other failings
Posted Tuesday 25th March 2014 By Ericka Waller
I’ve had better starts to a week. Woke up with a dead arm, no covers and three children asleep in my bed in star-shape positions. I haven’t been shopping so the children’s packed-lunch boxes are full of stale bread-sticks and Frubes. I promise to make it up to them with sausages and chips for dinner, not that I have either of these things. I don’t have any washing powder to tackle the laundry either, which today includes all of Thing-three’s piddly sheets.
Thing-One hasn’t done her homework diary. I didn’t even realise she had one until parent’s evening last week, where other mums sat making notes while I sat ripping skin from round my cuticles and got told to do more reading practice. (When I say more, I mean any.) She writes a story about a happy cat whilst eating Shreddies. I thought it was called the Dappy Cat and she got upset.
“We don’t even have a cat. We have a dog who just threw up on the rug. Write about that, and the other things that happened this weekend. Quickly.”
“Like Granny and Grandad finding a rat’s nest in the garden and you making daddy give the chickens away? And how he said it will be him next and then us, until it’s just you and your dog?”
“Forget it. Just put your (unpolished) shoes on and get in the car.”
I beg Thing-three to be good at pre-school. Last week she spilled her milk all over the table then threw the cup at the teacher, before eating her lunch off the floor. Once that was finished she hand-painted the loos green and wet herself.
(Ever since, her and Thing-two have been arguing over who gets to wear the spare Fireman Sam briefs the school gave her.)
I felt so stressed by it all I decided to go to the gym. Not the best place for people with Rheumatoid Arthritis, primarily in the feet, but being me, I decided it’d be fine to pound some stress off on the treadmill. Never mind my various specialists and the year of having to walk on crutches…
Of course I fell off the bloody thing. I tried to pretend all was fine and it was just a snazzy finishing technique, but my foot ballooned up and the husband had to come and collect me from the changing room, where a nice, but complete stranger, was helping to pull my large off-white knickers on. (See above about lack of washing)
I’m supposed to be on the sofa with frozen chicken nuggets on my foot, but the second the husband left I crawled to my computer, and here I sit, surveying all the mess and mayhem I am supposed to do, with my foot on a hot water bottle.
Just another day in my crazy life.