Saturdays are my favourite day of the week by a long way. Christiaan is off work, I’m off work legitimately and Eli is off nursery, our time belongs to no one but us and we generally have nowhere to be and nothing we need to achieve. I bet that sounds right depressing to some of you but I promise you, it serves us well. We’ve stopped setting ourselves ambitious plans for obvious reasons and I tell you what, it hasn’t half lifted the pressure. We’re as free as a fart in a convertible. If there was ever a silver lining to our situation, it’s that we have plenty of time just to “be”…. whatever the fuck that is.
That said, we have a 2 year old and we don’t have the luxury of sitting around all day, well not both of us at any rate, we’ve already established I’m the primary lazy bastard in this house hold, so I get away with it. Generally Saturday morning is when I would try and catch up from the week, I stay at home in the morning “resting” (or pretending to and then catching up on house stuff) and Christiaan takes Eli out; either to the park or to the Free Zoo (Pets at Home), the park or for a coffee. Now this is a strange phenomenon. When I go for coffee with Eli on my own I have to stand at that bastard counter watching them make the mochafuckitbackwards VERY SLOWLY while Eli chucks himself off my leg, or the floor, or has a melt down about cake, or badgers, or the fact that the floor is the floor and Santa isn’t there. Christiaan takes him on his own however… and Eli’s an angel AND he gets treated like fucking royalty! They tell him to sit down, that he has his hands full with the wee man and they bring the coffee to him rather than him standing and waiting…..WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! He gets treated like a single Dad see, I’m not there and Eli knows how to charm the ladies, he turns up the cute and their ovaries take over and they melt. They can see that Christiaan is THE best Dad, which of course he is, but I’d like to point out that half of that kids genes are mine. The arsehole half. He can turn on you at ANY time and go bat shit fucking crazy when you core his apple rather than letting him eating the furry star shape arsehole bit, so at least 50% of this exchange is manipulation on Eli’s part – they need to wise up.
Anyway, they go out and it means Eli gets some alone time with his dad and I get some peace. We always try and do stuff together in the afternoon but obviously, this weekend, is a challenge because, well, I’m shit. There was no fucking way I was going to let that spoil our routine though….not a chance. I fucking love Saturdays and M.E can go and suck some camel balls for all I care.
When you’re living life on the energy breadline you need to be imaginative with how you spend your time though, so although I was determined to do SOMETHING it would be something fairly low impact. I’ve barely left the house since Tuesday, in fact I think I’ve only been out 20 minutes to collect Eli from nursery yesterday… I can’t quite remember, but anyway, I decided… WE WOULD GO TO THE CINEMA. Fucking genius! I could sit down, in the dark, fall asleep if I wanted to. It was warm and cosy and Eli would have the worlds biggest telly to watch – I was winning at life and reveling in a whole queendom of smug. Cracked it.
Tell you what I didn’t crack though. Cost. The best things in life are free? MY FUCKING ARSE THEY ARE, THIRTY SIX BASTARD QUID TO GO AND SEE PETER CUNTING RABBIT?????? We queued a stupid amount of time for a chemical laden slushie for Christiaan (to be fair you could purchase tickets at the same bit so it wasn’t entirely wasted) all the while Eli was being a tit before we went in, rolling all over the floor and spinning something that I’m not convinced should spin – where were these coffee babes now?! We walked in, in the dark because it had already started (the one and only time I’ve ever known it not to have 30 minutes of drivel before a start time) and I’m not convinced we were even in the right seats. I couldn’t have given less of a fuck, we weren’t moving, I was having a sit down – the end. To begin with Eli was mesmerised, he sat nice, ate his snacks, had a suck of the slushie thing and I was thinking “I’ve pulled this off, he’s made for the cinema this kid” . I should have known better than to let that thought flood through my head because someone somewhere heard me, span on their heels and said “aye fuck that, quick, make him do that thing where he turns into a tiny psycho” . After an hour, a huge amount of bribery snacks and some wrestling he grabbed his coat, shouted FINISHED at the top of his voice and tried to climb over me to get out. So that was that. We left, because there are times and places to pick battles with a toddler and in a room full of quiet people who had paid a stupid sum of money to watch a film was neither the time nor the place. To be fair, he did well to last an hour, I wanted to leave after 10 minutes. Here’s a snap shot of the transition, you’ll recognise the vibe: excited arsehole>entertained angel>get me the fuck out of here pyscho.
There’s something a big strange about being “off sick” and still going out. I kind of feel like I’m taking the piss a bit, surely to be off sick I should be at deaths door? I slept most of the morning, still took my painkillers and generally just stayed cosy, but who would know that if they saw me gadding about at the cinema with my husband and kid, especially when on the face of it I look fine? The real answer obvs is: it doesn’t matter you dozy cow, but it bothers me…. and I don’t really know the answer. I refuse to give any more to this stupid illness than it has already so I guess I just carry on and try and educate people as best I can, some will judge me, some will respect me and others, well, others can go and fuck themselves, they’re in charge of their own judgmental outlook.
The other big news of the day, which you’ll probably have clocked on the Facebook Page is that my new slippers (baffies) have arrived. My old ones gave up after only a few months – a disappointing performance by anyone’s standards. I’m not going to lie, I felt let down. I choose them for Christmas, I had high hopes and they let me down by smelling of rotting ball sacks and splitting from their soles. After a year of intensive use I may have forgiven them but after three months? They were all talk with their 4 stars out of 5, THEY WERE LIARS.
So I’ve been bereft of decent baffies for a few days now and oh how my trotters missed the cosy embrace of indoor footwear. I was genuinely excited for their arrival and no word of a lie I kept pausing the telly this morning thinking the wee delivery man was here, he was never coming and never coming and then I got the fear that he’d come when were were out. At 3.50, 20 minutes after we got in £14.99 of pure, unadulterated size 8 cosy arrived. That’s it right there, my weekend is made.
I’ve no idea what tomorrow will bring but right now my primary focus is being up and ready to go to B & Q with the boys, for manly things, and maybe a shelf.
I know how to live….