We got back from our “holidays” – 4 (short) days a deux, 4 very very long ones) with the kids – last week, and I can honestly barely remember having been away. Thinking about it, instead of forking out for a sea-side rental house, we should have spent the money on a maternity nurse and earplugs. Note to self if I ever again think that going away with babies is going to be fun. A change is definitely not as good as a rest.
The sources of our non-rest continue to exhaust, and amuse. The Girl is sweet, but not exactly exhilarating company. She’s started to coo, which I spose is something. I feel bad for her tho – when the Boy was at this stage, we were ooing and ahhing over his every breath. Today at lunch, he continued to hold court at the table while she sat in her chair, staring at the lights, completely ignored. Poor child. Boy’s vocabulary and skills are on a steep curve. He mastered the scooter during the week and now flies along, one foot in the air (like a small fat ballet-dancer – you don’t see many of them), one on the “cootie”, hands gripped to the sides of the handlebar. We were dragged conker hunting, then across the park for “appuljooz” and then he had a melt-down and was carried home.
In true chav form, he was given fish fingers for his dinner. I don’t have the energy to cook anything for anyone. Or even type any more. The laundry is calling, and I plan on ignoring it by necking a G&T. I’ve sent the Man out to buy the T, limes and crisps – the latter because I want to at least pretend that we’re sitting in a posh bar somewhere. Guess I should really turn the oven off in that case. And maybe brush my hair.
(24 hours later... )
The Man was gone on his errand for over an hour last night. Which is quite an achievement as Sainsbury’s is more or less at the end of our street. To begin with I was a bit annoyed, then as the minutes clicked by I started to get worried, and then it dawned on me – he’s gone! He’s nipped out for the proverbial pint of milk, and I’ll never see him again. And with that thought, I wasn’t really pissed off any more. Sure, I wanted my drink, but really – given what he has to put up with, who could blame him? There are times when I’d leave – if I thought I could handle the guilt (and the worry – who’d climb into the Boy’s cot [yes, I know, I know – rod, back, beat...] to read Goodnight Moon to him?) Then I got pissed off again because we have a deal, the Man and I, where it’s agreed that if one of us leaves, we have to take the kids with us. We reckon that that way, our marriage will last – if not forever, at least until they’re all 18.
Turns out of course that he hadn’t nipped on the no 35 bus and fecked off to the rest of his life; our local Sainsbury’s didn’t have limes. Or crisps. Or tonic water. (Clearly every house-bound mother in the 'hood was gagging for a large drink last night). So he schlepped all the way up to the big huge one hours away. Aw bless.
It didn’t stop me nagging him when he got home tho. Bet he wished he’d taken his passport after all.
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