I feel ever so slightly in a fug lately. I think it has to do with the non-sleeping Littlest Chum and the almost constant to-do list that never gets done. I lurch from tired to busy to asleep with very little fun stuff in between.
So when the weekend rolls around I have high expectations. I want to have a lie in until maybe 8am. I want to have a long leisurely bath. I love baths, really properly love them. I like to spend an hour at least, reading a book (or Kindle nowadays) and soaking away the world, maybe with a glass of wine or at least a cup of coffee.
Unfortunately the reality is more like waking up at 4am with a teething baby who then thinks it’s morning, failing miserably at drifting back off to sleep after The Rock God takes him downstairs, running a bath while folding washing and missing the crunch point where it starts to run cold, therefore lacking the scalding skin-tingling aaaah sensation when I get in it. Lying in the lukewarm water reading the same paragraph over and over while refereeing fights between the Chums through the door.
The next thing I like to do on the weekends is spend time with my children. Ah my lovely Chums. How I love them. How I wish that they could bring themselves to speak to me without it being a moan or a complaint or a whinge, or in the case of The Pie, shouting at me that I’m stupid.
I like to do the housework in one fell swoop at the weekends, as I’d much rather avoid it the rest of the week. I have it down to a fine art, I can clean and tidy, hoover, mop, dust, change beds and give the illusion of a clean house in about two hours, which keeps the squalor at bay for the rest of the week with minimal effort in between. I ask The Chums every week to tidy their bedrooms. And every single week it becomes a battle. I always win, but it feels such a hollow victory. Yes, they have tidy rooms, but I feel wrung out and depressed and usually have a sore throat from losing my rag and screaming at them.
This weekend I have decided I no longer care. They can live in squalor. It doesn’t affect me, and despite what my mother thinks, it doesn’t affect them. So rather than spending the time this morning nagging and moaning, I decided to give them fun stuff to do. The Boy has gone to play football, and The Pie was colouring in the books I picked up for her in town the other week. Note the ‘was’. She decried them as ‘boring’ after ten minutes and is now watching tv, after asking me what else I got her.
I think I’ll go back to bed and start again.