Walk away

Trying not to lose heart with the walking. Tis not easy when He-who-must-be-adored is sunning himself/working overseas whilst I play single parent 24/7 (will I find time to unwrap Sunday supplements before bin night?) I failed to create an energy gap. I did up my energy use. But my appetite upped itself. After a week of walking endlessly I gained a pound. Am happy my lungs are cleaner without the fags, but am stretching the elastic allowance of my clothes beyond their limits. I thought I looked bad when I had only one extra belly!

Hurrah for the fish have arrived! The little-un loves them. And their poop. We get a running commentary: poop length plus how long it takes to disengage from their bodies (and I thought my life lacked excitement before!) The boredom abated briefly when they started doing bubble tricks at the surface. We have a geeky Teenager. She read the fish book. She said we were being entertained by fish gasping for air. Through lack of oxygen in the water. Whoops. We immediately performed an emergency 50% water change (with expensive de-clorination of course). As directed by the Teenager. I know it’s wrong but I miss the cute little gasping motions. The Teenager told the little-un she had to be more responsible. (at this point I walked away to deal with laundry). Or else the fish might die. (She’s a teenager so allow dramatic licence.) The little-un said ‘I’ve never touched a dead fish. I’d like to try’. Should I worry? Perhaps the goldfish police were right after all.

Today was a double grumpy day. It’s Monday. Not only did the sun not shine, but I got drenched. I’d forgotten just how horrible that damp feeling is (not to be confused with the other non-horrible damp feeling, though I can hardly remember it).

Speaking of…He-who-must-be-adored was supposed to sort out the chicken coop for Spring. It is spring. We have no chicks. We have no coop (just plenty of dog poop!) The real reason is our disagreement: I want a small two-hen thang. He, being male, wants some Peckingham Palace effort. That involves major groundwork. That involves He being around. Perhaps it’s a stalling device as He doesn’t want to spend his rare days off dealing with chicken shit as well as all the other shit I save up for such days. So I drive to Supersis for fresh eggs. This weekend I try a new egg recipe: crème brulee. The little-un says it tastes like tinned custard. Why do I bother?

I just caught sight of a Sunday supplement heading: 'birth with multiple orgasms' – they can go straight to the recycling bin this week. He-who-must-be-adored very nearly didn’t survive the birth of our third child – because I very nearly killed him.

Which brings us on to Mothers Day. Not much cause for celebration: my mother is long dead and buried and He-who-must-be-adored hasn’t forgiven his mother for a miserable childhood. Whilst He was sunning himself overseas my day started with the little-un prizing my sleeping eyes apart to admire her hand-made handiwork of a card. This was at least two hours before my eyes were ready to open. I then endured/enjoyed cold toast and tea as breakfast in bed, whilst reading my cards: ‘we’ve turned out OK, so you must be a good mum’. Faint praise indeed.

Could be worse. We could be living the life of my forensic friend: her little-un puked in the car. She left puke and weekly shopping-filled car at home with Mr Smutty whilst she did volunteering work for the benefit on her little-un, even though her little-un was too poorly to attend. Upon her return she finds the sun had been shining strongly on the car. And the puke. And the shopping. Mr Smutty had neither emptied nor cleaned. His poor excuse: dealing with a poorly little-un. Plus even smaller twins. Plus Granny. Who had fallen. On her face. Ouch! Needless to say my forensic friend didn’t respond to texts nor calls. All day.

Am hoping for sunshine tomorrow.