Why do we do it?

I am by no means a model mother. In fact I am still waiting for the zen-earth-mother-experience to set in!

Her majesty is onto that testing stage. Old enough to babble, too young to be understood. I akin her frustration to that of stroke victims whose minds are still able but whose tongues are unwilling.

Not a day goes by that I don't consider quitting. Motherhood ain't for sissies and God only knows why I signed up for it full time. I must be some kind of stupid. Or secretly made of tough stuff I just haven't discovered yet.

I wonder how my mother muddled through without killing my sister and I at toddlerhood! But I can now relate to her then perceived moods.I commented to a friend on Facebook the other day that I wonder how people have more than one child. Are they mad????? Are they daft???? Are they seriously gluttons for punishment or did I miss some cosmic memo that promises a pot of gold and a day off?

I have learnt/am learning that children are embarrassing. Until they are old enough to understand social graces and decorum they basically make you cringe in a corner picking snot off their fingers with a smile on your face whilst hoping nobody noticed that they discovered the all-you-can-eat buffet up their noses.

Her majesty has just taken to licking the grass in our back garden. Hello? We have four dogs ranging from ankle height to jugular range. And they poo and pee all over the place. Why on earth would she want to ingest it? Is this normal? And yet I am often tempted to let her do it and get it off her to-do-list! Eat poo - check. Stick fingers up dogs' bum - check. Pull wings off a fly - check. Madness.

And all this being said I am thankful that I am surrounded by many other women at a similar life stage whose kids are being just as gross if not worse. Phew, thank heavens for that. While everyone is watching little Fred doing a Picasso likeness with his own poo, they haven't noticed that my princess has walloped an unsuspecting child with the xylophone and then dropped it for something seemingly more interesting. Attention span of a gnat!

I envy all those women swanning around in perpetual serenity. How do they do it? Do they have a closet drinking habit to help them cope because they must be doing something and you can't tell me they rely on the power of prayer and meticulous journal keeping. Lies lies lies I tell you.

In an effort to up my parenting ante I invested in the Supernanny book. I hold it in very high esteem. For a woman who has no training or children of her own she sure has the toddler brain sussed. Her techniques really work, if you have the inner strength  to see it through. We now have a naughty spot and it works so well I am sometimes tempted to banish the king to it! Don't judge. It works for our family but it may not work for yours.

Life is fraught with struggle I am learning and for the most part I can take it all in my stride. I have a frustratingly understanding husband who is ever patient. But some days the wheels come off and I run out of funny. That obscure moment when you instantly lose the ability to laugh at yourself and situations and crumble like a cracker. This happens often too. I swear when I had my Caesar the doctor removed my coping mechanism!

But like all other full time moms I wouldn't change it for the world. I am tired all the time. I haven't had a full night's sleep since 2009. I can't remember when last the king and I went on a date. My beloved pets have been downgraded to just being dogs. I tend to bark orders like a Sgt, Major and have discovered my "Mommy Voice". I am a terrible person but this is what having children does to you.

PS. I think my bum is getting bigger. As if I don't have enough to worry about.

Toodles

What's for dinner?

I am a self-diagnosed OCD perfectionist. I am sure I may fall short of the actual medical requirements but if spending your life feeling like a loopy headcase is enough then I most definitely qualify.

In line with this behaviour I agonise over what's for dinner each night. True. Some friends (you know who you are) may argue that it's simply because house-wifery is dead boring and I obviously have nothing better to worry about. What with everyone else breaking their noggins over world peace and the state of the National Health System, I feel I can leave well enough alone. But alas, dinner is one of my top frets.

When I do the weekly shop I break the week down into meals and try to shop accordingly.
When I open my wee lids each morning, one of my first thoughts is "what's for dinner?". Forget the need to be thankful that another beautiful day has dawned and I am alive.
When I'm at a mates' having a cuppa I wonder what's for dinner.
When we're eating dinner, I ask his majesty what he wants for dinner tomorrow.
And if his majesty surprises us all and arrives with dinner then it really throws me off kilter. It takes me days for my mental menu to get back on track.

What's for dinner, what's for dinner, what's for dinner?!!??!?!?!??!

Tonight it was crust less tuna pie......very yummy. And tomorrow its pork steaks with roasted veg and tatters. Just in case you were wondering.

I am I the only daft fool who does this?

I gingerly add that I also worry that none of the "black" in my wardrobe matches. Life is too short some may say but unfortunately this is how I am wired.

Senseless

I am now getting over what was either a millions bouts of mini-colds or one REALLY long one.

Anyhoo this one really did a number on the old bod. And quite literally rendered me senseless.

Firstly, my sinuses were so clogged and backed up that I honestly was convinced that I may never again enjoy smelling my supper. Or my really expensive Dolce & Gabanna perfume. I must say I would've been more shattered over the perfume actually.

I am also just getting over the loss of hearing. Because of the pressure in my noggin, my ears got blocked with fluid - the left one is still not playing nice yet! - and I couldn't really hear much. The hearing loss just had to coincide with Sissa's 30th birthday weekend and a mega gathering which, while charming, brought me to a social impasse. Because I was temporarily deafened I kept asking people to repeat themselves. The "pardon me?" and "excuse me's?" were beginning to wear on peoples nerves. I could tell. I also have a keen sense that my Father Darling thought I was scuppered! Looking back I think I mustv'e looked sozzled too!

This also added to strain between His Majesty and I. You see I normally maintain that he suffers from selective deafness, a terrible male disorder. But when I kept asking him to repeat himself I could tell he was loving this shoe-on-the-other-foot skit. All at my expense I add!

Another funny thing happened during all of the fluid and mucous and such-like wonderful side effects. I lost my sense of taste. This was new. It also had to happen on the day when I made a super-duper coffee mousse. The entire time I was eating it I kept repeating to myself that this must taste like chocolate surely. My tea tasted like boiled water without the trimmings! And His Majesty was pushing me to test the scientific research that suggests when you can't smell anything you can't taste it either. Well, luckily I stuck to my guns and the onions got a reprieve. But even I was tempted.......just to try!

All of this sensory deprivation also needed to take place on a day when it was so bone-achingly cold that I couldn't feel my fingers or feet. Just my luck! So bye bye touch!

It was also the week I lost my precious specs. So I was blinded, to a certain degree too.

And His Majesty being a real boy wanted to try the funky monkey with me in this state! I did a double take?!?!? Like, I can't believe you want to play the nookie card when I'm feeling like death with legs! He maintained that a good bout of exercise would exorcise the virus from my system. What is it about men who can rationalise just about ANY daft and would be catastrophic situation as a reason for horizontal experimentation. I am neither going to confirm or deny whether the act took place. We can talk about that one a whole 'nother day.

Tally - no smell, no taste, no proper vision, no hearing and practically no touch - although thank heavens that was just temporary!

I have consumed enough ginger to make Asia blush. Gone through what seems like zillions of homeopathic "pilluiles" and enough triple ply tissues to keep the Carlton/Twinsaver company in the black for a very long time.

Tick tock 'til the next infection. I am trying to be a good girl and eat my vegetables but some days the wheels come off and I know I am going to get sick anyway!

I am much better now. I am doing research on music therapy. I have found that a mix of Alice In Chains and the Muse seemed to make me feel a whole load better. Now I just need to compile a hit list for tummy bugs and I'm set.

Struggles

Dear Fans and followers

Sorry about the long leave. Between losing the goggles and family visits I simply havent had the time.

I am working on my next piece as we speak!

The Help

Now I am not a stupid girl. I also used to be one of independent means too. I had no want for anything really. But being an utter and total control freak I have never been able to hand the state of our household over to anyone else. I also get a creepy feeling at the thought of someone other than his majesty knowing where I keep my "kinky knickers" if you know what I mean!

Sometimes life has cruel quirks. After vehemently denying the need for a a maid/servant/domestic for years I have now found I have inadvertently become one.

His majesty is a very spoilt boy in some regards. He will argue black is white that I am Hitler incarnate but the way I see it he's got it pretty cushy.

Back to controlfreakamania - I am wanting to get this named as a real syndrome. I do EVERYTHING in our house. Not only did I give up my most precious possession, aka my body, to bring forth our offspring but I am starting to believe I lost a fair amount of my sanity too! I will give you an example of an average weekday. Weekends sometimes go a little off kilter because of the excess of testosterone lounging in my bed at 7am, but this is a story for another day.

Righty-o -here we go :

Hear the princess babble from her room
Lie in bed in attempt at denial
fall out of bed, trip over his majesty's discarded work boots (that he left out whilst dressing this am and couldn't be bothered to put back!)
Knock shin on kist at foot of bed
Use the s-word against my better judgement as princess will start chirping it in a matter of seconds
Go and see to the princess
Dress the princess
Drag my sorry ass to the kitchen where I make podd-idge for the little miss and attempt to procure the biggest serving vessel i can find for a cuppa for myself
skip breakie, as usual, crave a cigarette (old habits die hard!)
feed the princess and try  to drink my cuppa before she can pour it over me
go to bedroom and attempt to dress
have to repeatedly hand the princess things as she keeps pointing to the wardrobe and babbling incoherently
succeed in slapping on a pair of jeans, t shirt, cardie and some boots - somehow got the undies on too without too much hassle - her majesty likes to put my knickers on her head and run away (this is alarming for the neighbours as I have to chase her to get them back)
Brush teeth with madam grabbing my toothbrush
try to have a wee - not easy with an audience, albeit helpful as she keeps trying to pull up my pants
back to kitchen to wash dishes from night before and breakie
sort laundry and out a load on to wash
entertain madam
try to hang out laundry while madam screams for kitchen gate - i do not let her outside because i just cant face picking up doggie do at 7am!
the rest of the day pretty much consists of entertaining the madam, cleaning up after her and doing the odd bit of housework, spiriting up fab supper from next to nothing most of the time, and some days even slapping on some panstick before his majesty arrives at the door and gives me the what-have-you-been-doing-all-day look.

I get tired just listing it all never mind doing it.

I clean the loo, I wash the windows, I do the laundry, I have even been known to whip out the iron on the odd occasion too, I feed the dogs, I polish, I scrub and I don't ask for anything in return. Well, at least not often.

I must be some kind of stupid. I ask myself this daily. Whilst men scoff that marriage is the last legal form of slavery I often wonder if they have considered the gender roles reversed. Is it us keeping them at heel or the other way around.

Yes, I have deduced that I am indeed a slave. I work for a minor and sleep with the boss. I get no pay, no allowance, no severance of any kind. I am not entitled to sick leave and right now I am convinced that the only vacation I will ever get may honestly start in a morgue.

All things considered, I DO THIS WILLINGLY! Shocking I know but it's true.

And tomorrow I get to do it all over again, RINSE, LATHER and REPEAT! Yippee lucky me.

Razor

I sometimes whine to his majesty that I want to be the boy! Just without all their fiddly, delicate plumbing.

I can see it, no having to do your make-up, agonising over whether you need to start applying your winter foundation because your tan has gone into hiding. No having to whip out the self-tanner because your skin  has now taken an oddly green palour due to vitamin D deficiency. No having to shave 96,4% of your body hair either.

Who deemed that girls had to be furr-free anyway. I bet it was a man. I bet it was the same bloody daft tool who gave us waxing and eyebrow tweezing too.

I have bony legs, or knees at least. No matter how podgy I get above or below the patella, my knees remain knobbly and un-shaveable. I end up with copious blood-loss and serious sense of humour failure just trying. And won't you know it if his majesty will always notice that I my knees are fuzzy. "I see you skipped a spot" he will always say.

I have tried most things. Hair-removal creams that reek. They create a cloud around you that seems to announce "I-HAVE-JUST-USED-DEPILATORY-CREAM-KEEP-AWAY!". It stinks when you use it and stink for days afterwards. So that's a no. Same goes for self-tanner quite honestly.

I have tried the preferred method of the celeb and saved my follicles for waxing. The concept is horrible and the pain is blinding - especially your armpits! What they don't tell you about waxing is that after they have wrenched you precious downy hairs from your legs and other regions, it makes the roots super sensitive. So you don't just get the goosebumps, you get the SUPER goosebumps...You only get it on the waxes zones. So if its cold a blustery day and you've had a Brazilian only 5 sleeps prior you may produce an odd smirk when the wind changes because the SUPER goosebumps are kicking in!

So that leaves shaving. Now I have tried many types of razor. The fancy ones with the guy-wires that are meant to save your life, pffffffffffft NOT! I have even used his majesty's open blade, purely for academic reasons of course. He says I blunt the blade with my wiry leg stubble. Suppose now is not a good time to inform him that I have used it on the nether region too(?). I just can't get no satisfaction in this regard. I by no means have high faluting standards on grooming, I am merely after a happy medium.

So at the start of every winter I declare that I have shaved my last til spring. I imagine all the millions we will save on razors and loo paper (to patch my knees). I fancy I can keep warm with all the extra body hair I will be conserving and I will no longer agonise on how to keep my socks up my legs - they can simply grip onto my "wigglies". But his majesty, true to form, wishes me well but add that I will de-fuzz before the week is out because I just can't take it. And he's right.

I feel like a failed feminist. I must also add that I decided to stop wearing a bra too, on account of the fact that my boobs have all but disappeared. This is not going well either.

I am such a girl.

Flashlights

I often maintain that his majesty and MacGyver were separated at birth or possibly even just closely related. I am in awe his majesty; at his ability to fashion some semblance of fire out of what appears to be garden detritus and how he can spirit up a walking stick out of a warped twig and a grotty old shoelace. He is also of the distinct mantra "be prepared" and as such ours is a home often kitted out to Armageddon-ish degrees.

Thus, we have often got a surplus of flashlights - or had before we moved. Torches. Call them what you will.

Now I am by no means unreasonable with his majesty's insistence at keeping these, I merely develop great irritation at the fact that they seldom if ever are in working condition. And they usually display the said broken down tendencies at stupid 'o'clock. When  you really, really, really need them to work.

The Mother-In-Law (hereafter referred to as the MIL) graced him a million candle power specimen for his birthday one year. I still argue what a townie like him would possibly need a million candle power torch for? But hey, what do I know. And whilst it was in working order (albeit brief) the local wildlife were subjected to nightly raids of their privacy. I am quite surprised we were not sued by some passing owl for retinal scarring and loss of condition due to starvation, a direct result of it's inability to hunt.

Or how about the G**E special he bought that never worked and he kept meaning to return and simply never did.

Or the lantern-like item we got for the power cuts of 2008 whose battery just died one night and has never been able to charge since. Yes, still got that one!

The list goes on. At the height of his collecting zenith his majesty had about 8. And only 1 was ever able to sputter out a barely visible flicker. I think I could've shoved a lightbulb into my belly button, clicked my heels 3 times and produced a far superior glow!

I am a practical person of form and function. If something breaks, fix it, replace it and if it beyond feasible correcting then for heavens bloody sakes CHUCK IT OUT. But nooooooooooooo. You see I married into a family of hoarders. The MIL's very own house is populated by mutilated figurines of hippos missing legs, carvings cracked and split out of years of moving, broken furniture, chipped ornaments and dented silverware. But you can't throw any of it away! Shock, horror! And my own family is just as bad. My father (now  partially cured, thank goodness) would replace appliances as they broke, but...he would keep the old one, you know, just in case he needed it say for I dunno, a reunion of old tedelex tv owners?!?! Wait for it. He still has the component HI-FI he bought in 1982 (?). I am doubtful as to which bits are still functional, but he's still got it.

Back to our flashlights. Post move we cleared out, reduced our possessions to a mere third of what we originally owned. Heartbreaking though it was for me, I think his majesty suffered most. You see he was forced to rid us of some of his beloved torches. Now, one would think the old, damaged, not working, never-going-to-find-a-new-battery-for-it, etc ones would go. Guess again. We are now left with a black ensemble that can either be used a free weight or doubles as a nightstick ( I swear you could kill someone with it if you tried) - this one does not work at present. Nor will it ever because it takes those HUGE round batteries that look like silos and cost a fortune. We are also left with a quaint green version of the black night stick. It too does not work as years ago the glass thingy above the bulb broke and after the little madam had at it recently, the bulb blew. This too will never be fixed as it has been relegated to his majesty's cupboard - a place I like to call "The-Place-Where-Broken-Things-Go-To-Die" so I don't figure seeing it anytime soon.

So I am now left to rely on my cellphone back light in the dead of night.

The flashlights now lie, broken, in the cupboard for our next move. No they will not be disposed of, they will not be repaired, they will simply become one of those annoying items that just moves with you wherever you go.