MMMM dinner. I am basking in the afterglow of chicken cooked slowly with garlic, basil, tomatoes and butter beans. I have eaten portions for about three rugby forwards, which is not wise, but entirely out of my control. All babies down, house looks as though the Clutter Fairy has been particularly generous with her sprinkling, and there is an alarming shortage of toilet paper in each of the bathrooms. So I am sort-of happy, and sort-of not. Perhaps time for an audit, if you will.
Things that are cheery:
Chicken baked slowly with… (see above)
Newly delivered magazines, like TimeOut and Vogue (but not the infernal supplements)
Time to read them
That first four minutes after Beautiful Brazilian cleaner has finished and the house makes sense, and there are piles of folded things and the floor has no broken-up cornflakes over it
The children eating their dinner lustily and in silence
Finding something in the charity shop which fits and is beautiful and getting it before anyone else sees it and wrests it away
Going to ChaChaMoon with Mark and ordering the lamb lao mien and then seeing mutually beneficial movie
Things that are likely to make me a bit Cranky:
The missing “R” from the laptop after Mark cleaned it with industrial vacuum cleaner. Eejit
The screeching and wailing and fighting and biting that sometimes happens when all three kids are in Waitrose, usually near baguette aisle. The horrified looks from more sedate customers is not so good, either
Not fitting clothes very well, generally, but especially when I discover NEW parts of body that aren’t what they used to be (upper arms, I’m talking to You)
Days when the boringness of looking after children and house is terribly apparent – when the wiping up the bench has been repeated 17 times and there is more milk spilled on floor and the clothes have been in the washing machine for two days and smell like wet dog and someone is in a headlock and the baby is trapped under a chair and then the automated man rings to ask you something about your phone company. Maybe then, I weep a little bit
Before I get depressed, shall move hastily on.
I did have the task of going to see Barnaby’s teacher at nursery today, for a bit of ‘he is dreadfully normal’-type reassurance. In my none-too-generous ten minute slot, I learned precisely that. No extremes – no violence, no signs of geniusness, no freakishly impressive way with paint, average in everything. Good. (I think). Apparently we just need to work on his letters. I didn’t even know he could hold a pen. This task fills me with a bit of glumness, because asking Barnaby to write his name is like asking me to get ready for the accountant. I know it is important, and stuff, but it is so BORING and HARD. Tasks such as this tend to see me staring into vacant space for a long time, eyes unfocused, perhaps a bit of a dribble on. And so it shall be with my firstborn. Ah well, I guess I am the parent and must behave like one.
And while at nursery, I toyed with the idea of letting them know about the New Baby Coming. But they all fuss and coo about my current three small children, and go on about the ‘tribe’ and ‘how do you do it?’ and be a bit pointy and starey and so dropping the news that once again I am Expecting An 11-Pound Whopper felt just a little too much. Might just wait until Barnaby announces that his daddy gave his mummy a seed into her Giant, or similar, or until my stomach is shouting out the truth. Incidentally, I have told two friends this week who said they knew. I asked “Is it the fatness?” to which they both replied “No, it is your GLOW!” Yeah, right. Reader, clearly I am a fatty. ALREADY. Sigh.