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!