SO HELP ME GOD!

It's the Easter school holidays, again.  Oh God, really?  Then that means there are two weeks of constant whinging, whining, crying, screaming, tantrums and door slamming to look forward to - and that's just me!  Oh God, please just kill me now.

On top of two whole weeks of school holidays, Sarah has chickenpox and Bart has had the most amazingly explosive diarrhoea for days, leaving his arse raw and very sore.  Obviously he has no concept of REAL pain, you know, like the pain of trying to push a baby the size of a Brontasaurus from somewhere a Brontasaurus was never realistically going to emerge without it smarting a little.  Saur Us?  Pah!  Tell me about it.  If only I'd been willing to countenance a sore arse more often, my baby Brontasaurus wouldn't have been born in the first place!

Sarah has been comparatively lucky by only having two pox spots, but she has suffered terribly with a shocking temperature and stomach and headaches that won't be beaten with pain relief.  Like most children I'm sure, I'm now having to endure days upon days of having her clinging like a limpet to any available limb, whilst still trying to complete the most mundane of tasks.  Imagine having a pox-ridden child's arms wrapped around your middle, cuddling you from behind, whilst you're trying to clean foul smelling mustard arse gravy from a baby that would really rather you wouldn't!  Oh, the joy...

The other day was a complete nightmare: Bart was ravenous and Sarah wasn't.  I cooked a meal (!) and Bart couldn't get it down fast enough.  Sarah on the other hand was feeling nauseous and scarpered upstairs, believing she was to be sick, and insisting I go with her to hold her hair and try very hard not to throw up on the back of her neck.  Whilst upstairs with Sarah, morphing into a fetching shade of Kermit Green myself, Bart is unleashing hell downstairs because he's strapped into a highchair and unable to reach his food, which is just outside his reach.  So down I run, leaving Sarah perched over the toilet bowl promising not to be sick for 2 minutes, so that I can give Bart his dinner.  Upon pushing his plate towards him, Bart plunges both hands into his mashed potatoes and gravy and then releases them suddenly catapulting peas, carrots and sweetcorn everywhere.  You can imagine my delight.  I think I said something along the lines of "Oh heavens above my little darling, what on earth did you do that for?"  Now I was committed to feeding him his dinner (because he couldn't be trusted not to redecorate the kitchen in my absence), between manic strides upstairs to check on Sarah, who was heaving and retching away, when I told her quite clearly not to until I got back!  Kids!

Once Sarah's stomach had settled without actually being sick, and Bart had finished what was left of his meal from between his fingers, in sauntered Keith asking about my day.  Luckily I didn't have a heavy bottomed saucepan or a sharp implement in my hands at the time, but the steam from my ears and a look of reassurance that only I can give [that one's for you Olga], told him all that he needed to know, and he promptly put the kettle on.

Sarah's getting better every day and Bart's arse is less scarlett, but the two are a combustible mix when together for long periods of time.  They love each other dearly, but two weeks of their squabbling is going to send me around the bend.  Wish them luck...

This article has been sponsored by Hardys Shiraz Cabernet, on your table ... for not very long!

THE FUZZY END OF THE LOLLIPOP

Is it just me?  Did I not read the job description properly when applying for this God-forsaken, thankless task?  How is it I always - ALWAYS! - end up with the fuzzy end of the lollipop?  You want examples?  Okay then...

1) How is it I get lumbered with the Mummy hearing?  Why is it that if Sarah and/or Bart wake in the early hours of the morning due to illness, dreaming or just plain buggerance, that it's me who hears them, whilst His Nibs enjoys the numerous benefits of Daddy-Deafness?  Even when I have an ear infection, and my ears are clogged with oozing noxious pus, I still - miraculously - hear more than he does!  I'm seriously considering trans-gender modification, because clearly a penis is all I need for a good night's sleep.  I'm gonna grow me one of those - they're awfully handy at picnics and will mean I never have to send another birthday card again.  What's really rich is when I spit nails at him for sleeping through a tsunami of snot, piddle and puke, his defence is "...well, it's because I'm tired!"  Oh, I'm sorry - please forgive me, I didn't mean to be so insensitive - what with all the sleep I get, it's unfair of me to deny you 8 hours for every 90 continuous minutes I get.

2)  I'd also like to know at which point I agreed to do absolutely everything.  Don't get me wrong, Keith works damned hard for long hours and there is no disputing it's tiring and draining - but work is all he has to think about.  On my "To Do" list is: 90% of the housework (Keith will pull his weight when at home), all laundry, all ironing, the bulk of the shopping responsibilities, all birthday/Christmas/anniversary gifts/cards/parties, all school homework, all school correspondence & liaison, all clothing & footwear purchases, all household bill payments & management, packed lunches, all Health Visitor/doctor/dentist appointments, swimming/ballet/tap dancing lessons, all household insurances, all vehicle insurances, 90% of the school runs, shoe polishing, dishwasher salt/rinse aid/cleaning - oh bloody hell the list just keeps going and my fingers are numb typing it all out.  In fairness I will add car washing and grass cutting to Keith's list, but I clearly have more to remember and if I forget the walls of Jericho come tumbing down.  Can we also remember that we have our own business, so on top of all that I've just listed, I have the business' accounts, admin and marketing to complete whilst looking after two children.

Here's another sad but true tale.  Keith used to own a van with GPS and now has a van without GPS.  Yesterday we attended a trade exhibition 50+ miles from home, in the van without GPS.  We'd been to this particular venue many times in the past.  Dammit we've even been to venues right next door many times but, because I was web browsing on my Blackberry as we approached said venue, thinking we were home and dry and therefore not navigating, we got lost!  There is no down time is there - you have to be on your game all the time.  When asked what I consider to be a bloody stupid question like "where are my keys?", I've started saying "you're a big grown up boy now, think about where you last saw them and go look for them!"  Admittedly there's usually an expletive or six thrown in - but you get the picture.  I was confident that we'd find our venue yesterday and switched off momentarily, only to find ourselves back tracking for mile upon mile.

3)  I seem to be the burnt toast recepticle - how did that happen?  I don't even like burnt toast.  It's my own fault for allowing it to happen, but how did it happen?  Why is everyone happy for me to have the burnt toast in the first place - is there no possibility of "you can't eat that, I'll make you some more"?

4)  Why can't I have a bath, or read the paper, or watch the evening news?  To ask for - much less expect - to achieve these simple pleasures, you'd think I'd asked to skin a baby and roll it in salt.  These three things in my life are akin to scaling Mount Everest, becoming Prime Minister or getting into size 10 jeans again - examples of what I'd like to achieve, but have very little hope of ever actually accomplishing them.  I had a bath on Mother's Day, but it wasn't worth it.  There was zero possibility of a quiet relaxing soak whilst the D-Day landings were being re-enacted downstairs. 

We go through the traumas of pregnancy and birth (well, I certainly did), you lose your mind, body and spirit, every day is an uphill struggle through treacle, Nurofen is what constitutes breakfast, your eyes are like piss holes in the snow from the sleep deprivation and all for a tatty, glittery hand-made card on Mother's Day.  This year I will mostly be holidaying in Guantanamo Bay - it'll be a lot less stressful than camping with my lot!

I'M GONNA RIP HIS HEAD OFF AND...

I'm gonna rip his head off and shit in his neck!  I'm referring to my dearly beloved Keith who was snoring AGAIN last night and I've just about had enough.  If it's not him making the earth move - for all the wrong reasons - it's Bart because he's thirsty or has his legs caught in the bars of his cot, or he's teething, or he's just being a pain in the arse like his father!

Seriously, I have not slept well or properly since January 2003, i.e.: weeks before I fell pregnant with Sarah - because once I was pregnant with Sarah, I ran a huge gamut of reasons not to sleep, which I reluctantly repeated once pregnant with Bart.  Evidently my pelvis is held together with Pritt Stick and duly fell apart under the considerable strain of carrying two not-inconsiderable babies (I had SPD).

Then Sarah had Croup - not asthma as the doctors insisted - and subjected me and only me (because Keith has nocturnal deafness!) to a very loud barking cough throughout winter.  Every winter.  Then we had neighbours who moved in and had the loudest most vigourous and frequent sex - EVER!  It just wasn't fair.  On the nights all of these things didn't happen, the moon was blue and a police helicopter hovered 3 inches above our roof all night - arghhh!

So, we're back to last night, and I was starting to list all the possible sites in which I could bury Keith's body, but decided against murdering him upstairs, as I'd have problems dragging him downstairs - what with the 13 loud bumps of his dead-weight skull crashing against every stair tread.  Hmmm, this would probably wake the children - and I clearly didn't want that!  So having decided against murdering him - for the moment at least, I won't rule it out completely - what could I do to shut him up?!  Rip his head off and shit in his neck!  True, it would dirty the sheets, but it would be worth it for a few short hours of slumber.

We've tried everything on the market and we've seen an Ears Nose & Throat specialist who told us, in his considered and educated opionion, that Keith has a "fat neck" - a medical term I believe - which is causing the snoring.  Tell me, did we pay for your medical training via our taxes Dumb-Arse?!  Nothing stops this man from snoring - nothing!  We've even had the neighbours - yes, those neighbours, banging on the wall telling him to shut the fuck up, which is a bit rich if you ask me.  I'd rather listen to Keith snoring than two hyenas disembowlling each other with garden implements - which must be what's going on in there!

So, if you know of any geniune, well tested and successful means of getting a man with a fat neck to stop snoring, please email forthwith and tell me about - otherwise I'm gonna need to borrow your shovel!

I'm Back! Again.

Sorry for the unseemly delay but I'm back now, and there'll be no stopping me!

I've simply been so busy with work, family and the rigours of Facebook and Twitter (urgh!), that I've not had time for this blog.  Congratulations to all of you who have held it together all these months, your therapists have updated me repeatedly on your progress, and are confident of a full recovery now that I'm back.  I promise to not wander off like that again without full and complete notification.

Not much has changed since I've been away. Maleficent continues to breathe - dammit - and also continues to be a hooning great pain in the arse, Olga is still magnificent but I don't get to see or speak to her nearly enough, whilst Keith and the kids are still married and/or related to me, which is as much as can ever be expected.

Our neighbours however have been renamed (from Shagette and Igor) to Forehead and Peanut, simply because of their very odd shaped heads, and because she doesn't get the shaggings she used to - boo hoo - more sleep for me! I've been reliably informed (via the For Sale sign outside) that Forehead and Peanut are moving house soon. This fills me with joy and terror all at the same time. Watch this space to find out what species of pond life we get as neighbours this time. The fact that I saw David Attenborough setting up cameras in the front garden does not bode well I feel.

I have absolutely LOADS to rant about, so do keep up and be sure to visit back again very soon - I could literally go off at any time.  I have set up a blog for work recently and have to positive, cheerful, proactive, dynamic and friendly - you know, all the things that come so easily to me [cough].  This blog however is going to be where I vent my spleen, where - because I'm annonymous - I can say what I like about who I like - woo hoo! 

Stand well back coz' here I cum, come.