Given yesterdays cataclysmic failing to be anything more than a big whiney fucking arsehole I was determined today would be better. If you’re sat there holding your breath wondering if I’m going to start wailing and nashing in martyrdom; I’m not and it was definitely not as shit as yesterday. There you can relax now, I’ll not make you feel uncomfortable or like you want to drown me.
In fact it got off to a promising start as laddo didn’t wake up until 6.30 this morning – it was like he KNEW that I needed to sleep. Now he should have KNOWN because we’d paid £20 for a fucking Gro Clock to tell him when it was time to get up, and when it was time to cuddle back in again so that I COULD sleep. It gets amazing reviews apparently, every child is spellbound by it’s magic: it was the answer to all of our problems. At night it’s a soothing blue colour and counts down stars until morning when it magically turns yellow and the sunshine pops on heralding the start of a new day. You can set it to whatever time you like so we aimed high and set it for 6.30. That should have been easy this morning seeing as he was still pissing around at 8pm last night claiming he’d dropped his muzzy and bitten his finger by mistake and needed a cuddle and needed calpol. After a few trips up stairs to retrieve the dropped muzzy I told him over the monitor he was on his own, I was fucked if either Christiaan or I was going up and down the stairs all night. He settled down after that – he’s a wee chancer. So anyway, this morning rolls round and I’d been awake for about half an hour, trying to psyche myself up to go and have a piss when Eli started shuffling around; it was 6.10. Brilliant I thought, he’s gone past 5am which is epic, and we’re close enough to the “sunshine” coming at 6.30 for me to test out whether he understood the concept of the clock. He should understand it, we’ve been talking about it non fucking stop for the last few days and there’s even a special book you read at night before bed time, you read it to him I mean; lets face it I don’t need help staying in bed. So I laid in bed listening to him chattering away to himself for a good twenty minutes but at 6.32am he still hadn’t acknowledged the clock had changed to “sunshine” and it was time to get up, I thought he mustn’t have registered the change so I’ll just leave it a bit longer till he does. I left it till 6.35 when he was starting to sound a bit pissed off about still being caged in bed; then I asked through the monitor “Eli is the sun on your special clock on yet?” in my sweetest Mum voice, and he says “Yeah” while whining and morris dancing with his muzzy, and I say “right then sweetheart, well done for staying in bed, it’s time to get up, Mummy’s just coming” so I pulled myself from bed smugly mentally high fiving myself for solving the 5am crisis that has been in situ for the last 2.5 years. I should give parenting advice really, I’d be fucking marvellous at it – we could retire on my success. I shuffled to his door, poked my head round while smiling at my beautiful womb fruit and giving him the most magical start to the day. As I got him out of bed I turned to pay hommage to the magic clock and thank it for it’s incredible efforts. Only, it had done fuck all. The yellow sun was not on the special fucking clock, the blue bastard stars were still fucking shining – Eli had lied and that fucking clock was set 10 minutes slow. I’d been outsmarted by someone who still shits their pants and an inanimate object. Today could go and fuck itself already.
I’m not going to lie, I felt totally cheated but I was determined it wasn’t going to spoil my morning so we plodded downstairs and had a good couple of hours just pissing around – exactly what a Sunday should be. Eli was consumed by jigsaws, getting stuck in every conceivable place and feeding his monkey some hash browns, there were eggs on the menu for my breakfast and I had a hot cup of tea; I was living the dream.
That’s a snap shot of my morning by the way. When you’re 2.5 sometimes your entire agenda is making as much mess as possible while trying to fit into a small box; and THEN crying because you’re stuck in the small box. Contrary little fucker.
I had my heart set on getting out this morning; not too far, and not anything taxing but SOMEWHERE, so I dragged my arse through the shower and you’ll be chuffed to hear, I changed my pants and I have actual clothes on – I am no longer sweaty flaps from Fife. I’d love to say the shower was refreshing and energised me, it didn’t, it felt like missile fire and I was chuffed when it was over; but I was clean and I suspect Christiaan was relieved that I no longer resembled a dirty mad woman. I had already achieved more than I did yesterday. After a long sit down I even managed to get clothes on, I was fucking excelling today I tell you. So where do people go to get “out” while not doing too much? The retail park again obvs. I needed yet MORE shit from B&Q and Christiaan needed to return summit to Curry’s so that’s where we went. It took at hour, not because that’s how long it should have taken, but because I’m as weak as a kitten and I was shuffling. I did it though and although it sounds a bit wank going to B&Q for a morning out the drive there always makes me feel happy. The road is really narrow and spans the length of the farmers fields next to the sea; on a sunny day it’s stunning, hills on one side, sea on the other, often with horses parading around in a paddock. It’s really lovely. Today though it made me laugh.
There’s a wee road on the left taking which catches a lot of people out, there’s been a few accidents with cars pulling out onto traffic, or cars turning suddenly because it’s a bit tricky to spot. Praise the wee man above that the farmer, or the council have taken matters into their own hands. Look.
That’s just the ticket innit? A tiny hidden sign. You see that first post on the right, the one that’s the size of a pube, that’s where the sign is. It’s approximately 3 inches by 6 inches. Now if Noddy or even Pat, the worlds most ineffective postman, were local they “may” have noticed it while plodding along in their comedy vehicles at their standard speed of 16mph, but the speed limit is 50mph and when figments of my imagination aren’t driving on it, real people are… quickly. You’ve no fucking chance of seeing that sign. Well not until it’s too late and you’ve either clocked the concealed entrance for yourself, or there’s a car/tractor driving toward you with more than a hint of “I’m gonna fuck you up”. It’s the most ineffective tiny warning I’ve ever seen/almost missed. I only noticed it at all because I realised there was something new and that’s because I know that road like the back of my hand and because I already fucking know there is a concealed entrance. If you’ve never driven it before, you’ve no fucking chance. Now before you start twisting your melons about the perspective of those pictures, please note that I took them at different times. The picture of the sign was taken going TO the retail park so was on my left, and the picture of the concealed entrance was taken on the way back so was on my right – it’s not black magic or voodoo and I’m not taking the picture while driving; I was in the passenger seat. You might never have noticed, but I would, and in your shoes, without an explanation that would have blown my actual mind. So there you go, sorted. Just in case.
It’ll not surprise to hear that after my hour out I’d reached my limit – all of my energy was depleted. I gave Eli his lunch, got him down for his nap and then crawled into bed for a couple of hours. I was, and still am, fucked so the afternoon has been pretty gentle. I got a few more plants potted out, Eli rampaged round the garden “watering” which basically means he soaked his feet and then we had to come in because he freaked out at the lawn mower. I’m not holding much hope of him being an avid gardener when he grows up, which sucks, because neither Christiaan or I are either; we fucking hate it and it’s neither wonder really. Christiaan got covered in gull vomit after cutting the postage stamp size grass at the back, turns out either Davie or Anges had barfed up a bit pile of fish bones…. which then went through the mower. He needed to clean his glasses when he came in; poor fucker. That said, I think the wee splashes of colour are starting to make a difference now. I need to get some weed killer down, get some new furniture and some garden rugs and it’ll look a whole lot better. We’ve got some trailing plants in single pots attached to the fence to try and hide the fact it desperately needs replaced, some strawberry plants for laddo to attend to and some other green leafy nonsense in pots all round. It’s still shit, but it’s better and hopefully as everything starts to grow it’ll improve. If not I’m saving up and this bastard is getting landscaped.
I was only in the garden for half an hour or so really, I couldn’t do anymore so I went indoors to “rest” until it was time for my folks to come round and play with Eli. He had his “No” on this afternoon but was right excited to see them and thankfully wasn’t too much of a tit, not that it would have mattered, he can do no wrong in my dads eyes 😉 I can understand why people look at him and think him angelic but fuck me they need to take their rose tinted glasses off. His epic nautical look is sponsored by Little Buttons Boutique by the way if you fancied grabbing the whale print.
So it’s just after 7pm and Eli’s in bed now and me? Well… I’m cold deep in my bones, I’m exhausted and I feel like I weigh 93 stone. I mean I hope I don’t weigh 93 stone because that would definitely be going backwards and I have weigh in tomorrow….. I’m only 2.5lbs away from the 3 stone mark and although I’m not expecting to have lost that in a week due to sloth like mobility, I would like to see something come off – even half a pound would do, most people can shite that out so I’ll have a strong coffee and see if I can make it happen. I’ve been good all week but I’ve made my peace with it all trickling away slowly, people say it stays off longer, I dunno about that; I reckon I could just as easy gain a fuck tonne in a week if I was let loose but I’m prepared to buy into the hype while it suits me – why not?
So a quiet Sunday night to gear me up for solo parenting tomorrow, something I look forward to and dread in equal measures. I love spending time with bollockchops but even the best toddlers in the land are hard work so he might just need to be a wee bit patient with me tomorrow. If all else fails I’ll feed him cake till he passes out. It’s not a bad way to go…..
- I emigrated from the land of the unclean
- I got out
- The garden is looking a bit better
- It was a cracking day
- I only had to sleep once
- Tomorrow is Monday and I’m treating myself to home made pizza I think
- I feel fucking awful
- I need to phone the insurance company now the leak is fixed and argue about the reincarnation of ceiling vag – I cannot wait.
- Tomorrow is Monday which sucks, it also marks week 4 since I admitted defeat at work. I’m missing the banter and the graft.
- What’s on the menu Mellars? Erm very little again so far today
- boiled eggs on toast for breakfast
- Lunch was a non event
- Dinner – no idea yet… It was supposed to be a crispy beef thing but it’s a new recipe and I don’t think I’ve got the brain power to make it happen.