Ed wakes up poorly. Smudge goes to work. I become poorly. New bed arrives for spare room. Call Smudge home from work as Ed ill, I’m ill and Alex pacing the front room like a caged animal. Roaring. Actually roaring. Husband is a trooper and comes home.
I go to bed. Ed perks up and all 3 boys agree to put new bed together. Husband spends 2 hours being incredibly patient with boys as they hinder his construction attempts. Bed is built. We stare at it for a long time without speaking. It looks like Father Christmases room in Santa Claus the Movie. A bed. In a room. A room which is just a giant bed.
“At least people will be comfy!” we say.
“Which is the important thing!” we say.
We shut the door and pretend the room doesn’t exist.
7pm. Bedtime story. Alex demands a teddy. Husband tells him
“Alex, you can have the teddy but you need to say the magic word”
“Magic word” says Alex. Giving husband the good old eyeball and a smirk.
9.30am. Drop Ed at playschool and drive home. Turn on radio 2. Classic 80’s tune belts out. I sing. Voice behind me says
“Mummy stop singing! Make my ears sore!”
11am. Go to Doctor for 11.10 appointment.
11.30. Not seen Doctor.
11.45. Still not seen Doctor.
11.50am. Leave surgery with prescription.
Midday. Arrive at pharmacy. Get charged over £7 for antibiotics. Almost collapse from shock. Fear of needing to buy MORE drugs to help with shock keeps me standing. Consider selling a kidney. Think again. My kidneys are ruined.
2pm onwards. Afternoon dominated by thoughts of delicious sugary treats and suggestive sexy time in the Edwardian era. AKA Great British Bake Off final and The Paradise.
8pm. In a bittersweet mood. Excited about who will be crowned 2012’s Masturbater (couldn’t resist, sorry, 2012’s MasterBAKER) of the series, but bitter that it is the end for this year. Based on his crappy unsupportive family alone I start backing Camp Manc. He wins. I am delighted. His mother has a face like a smacked arse. He gets a 1st in his degree. I punch the air.
Wake up. Realisation sets in that I am Han Solo all the live long day as Smudge is out at a works event until 10pm. Hats off to all single parents who do the whole day themselves every day. I salute you. Today there will be no text at 5pm saying
That text is the adrenaline injection which pushes me over the final hurdle of tea time, bath time and bed time. But not today.
Cradle third cup of tea whilst planning activities to fill EVERY SINGLE HOUR of our day. Keep us all busy and occupied = limit amount of fights and shouting. 12 activities required.
9.30am. School photo session. Convinced husband last night that neon coloured clothes for both boys against bright blue photo backdrop may result in migranes for those family members wanting prints. Settle for slightly less eyeball invasive clothing. Stand in queue. Gingernut bribery biscuits in handbag. Dreading the session. Going to be hideous and stressful. Neither boy will co-operate. I know it.
9.35am. Am thrilled with session! Was wonderful and perfect! Boys a delight! Reward them with cake in a cafe.
11am. Doorbell rings. Rush to door and shout
moving shoes and coats out of my way.
“It’s just me!” says the stranger…
Open the door. Look at him suspiciously. He looks embarrassed and slinks away.
6pm. Open and shut stairgate like it’s made of glass. Shut my bedroom door like it’s a mine bomb. Have snuck upstairs for lie down and 5 minutes peace. Forget kids are like Raptors from Jurassic Park. They can open doors and stairgates. Kids find me.
We lay on my bed and talk about our Christmas lists. Ed asks for a fleecey dressing gown, a cup, a flower, a new whistle and some cake.
I love him so much.
But we need a list of toys. I suggest he asks his friends what toys they have and get some ideas. We watch Cbeebies (and Toy Story 3 every single day) therefore are not normally preyed on by the Matell pimps (no adverts). A plus during the normal year but at Christmas, well, we need the Matell pimp.
7pm. Kids in bed. I blog about stuff that is worrying me. Bullies. School. My babies. Buddy the Elf.
10pm. In bed. Reading. 40 calorie hot chocolate half consumed. Husband returns.
“Hey, look at my lunchbox!”
Am sceptical. Is this a “line”? Is he about to drop his pants?
He thrusts actual lunchbox in my face. Open it. Find this.
I shriek. Am excited beyond belief. I shake my fist at the cost of Sky TV subscription and want to shout IN YOUR FACE at our household budget. Amazon came through for us again. A year behind everyone else, but still, we got there.
Look at the clock (10.10pm) and then my husband in the eye
“Ok. But we can only watch ONE episode, Ok?”
We watch two.
10am. Ed at playschool. Alex and I make cakes. Alex cracks an egg in his bare hands just through sheer strength. I am impressed. He wipes the egg in his hair. I am unimpressed.
12.15pm. Walk in to playschool. Go to Ed, sitting on the mat.
“I forgot to ask my friends about Christmas presents” he says sadly.
2pm. See a friend. She calms me about school. She talks sense and reason. I feel better.
7pm. Go for run. Run past a couple walking their dog
“Wow! Some people run so fast!”
Feel like a superhero. Had planned to walk for a bit after I passed couple but now, of course, cannot. Must keep running and not loose face. Get a stitch. Keep running. Get round corner. Halt. Dry heave.
10pm. Ask Twitter what a four year old boy would want for Christmas. Get response from one mother who it seems, is forced daily to act out episodes of The Octonaughts and can do a marvellous Captain Barnacle impression. Get another reply from a mate who is, perhaps without realising, clearly giving me his childhood Christmas list from the early 1980’s (The A Team Van! A MR FROSTY!).
Try to sleep. Can’t. Drift off. Alex wimpers. I wake. Lie there for 2 minutes. Drift off. Alex wimpers. I wake. Multiply this by 10. Start to feel exhausted and weirdly, very panicky. And stressed. Heart starts pumping. Can’t stop it. I have an actual panic attack. Never in my life have I ever had a panic attack ever before. And here I am. Having one. Over nothing. Just because of being over tired and not resting. Can’t think rationally. Only thought in my head to help is to bring Alex in to our bed. I sit up. I calm down. Bring Alex in to bed. Wonder if Alex was having bad dreams. He cuddles right in, falls straight asleep. Transfer him back to his bed at 3am with his pillow. Get back in my bed. Realise he took MY pillow and I am going to have to sleep on a 3 inch thick block of Buzz Lightyears face. I sleep.
Wake up. Talk to Smudge about “my episode”. He tells me he sleeps like that most nights. I feel bad for always just turning off the light, and then my conciousness. I slept through the 1987 storm. Times have not changed.
Ed dresses himself.
In the car Chris Evans talking about Strictly Come Dancing. Ed tells me he is excited about the episode tomorrow. Shocker.
10am. Ed at playschool. Drag Alex round supermarket. Have been really good all week and not eaten or drunk anything bad/fun. Head to wine section like a kid at Christmas. Sainsbo’s are doing Oyster Bay for the bargain price of £5.99! I pick up a bottle. Notice 25% off 6 bottles of wine or champagne. Pick up 5 more bottles of wine and champagne. For Christmas. Say this out loud. Woman next to me, loading her trolley with pinot snorts and says,
“Yeah, me too. Christmas“.
We give each other knowing looks. This booze will never see December. I think she is my new BFF.
Alex picks up empty wine box. Puts in on his head. Sings “I’m a robot, a robot, a robot”
Drive through supermarket carpark. A trolley whizzes in front of the car, at speed. Emergency brake at 10 mph. A middle aged posh man in a tweed jacket peers at me, guiltily from behind his Range Rover, 2 rows of carparking spaces away. He evidently had a moment of childishness and thought it would be fun to launch a trolley 30 feet in front of moving traffic. He puffs his cheeks out and shrugs an apology. I do my best “angry mum” face. I mouth some words at him.
Get to the double car park barrier exit and race the woman next to us, getting my card in and getting my barrier up first. We win. I am sure I see her mutter some some words at me.
12.15pm. Pick Ed up from playschool. Teacher stood at door handing out letters. I wait in line for Ed’s. Teacher looks through names. Ed doesn’t have one. Looks like everyone else is getting one. Turns out they are party invites. Try not to burst in to tears (me, not him, luckily he hasn’t realised). Tweet about it. Get a lot of love. Thanks Twitter.
Get home. Blast out “Gay Pirates” by Cosmo Jarvis at the boys request. Again. As we do every day. And every car journey. Weigh self. Have lost 4lbs. Put wine and garlic bread in fridge. Roll on Friday evening. And perhaps a slightly healthier, calmer weekend. Am sure the wine will help.