I find weekends challenging.
Firstly, I am completely exhausted from working all week. By ‘working all week’ I mean – getting up, feeding and sometimes dressing children, putting a load of washing on and/or haning a load of washing out, picking up sundry items off the floor that have either
a) created a deep impression in my foot as I tried to complete the great Narrabeen transect or
b) cost a lot of money and will be very anger-inducing if broken or
c) been killed by the cat during the night.
Occasionally there is vacuuming but that depends on my rage-levels.
Then there is my showering and dressing and if I’m lucky, breakfasting, prior to about 1hr10minutes commuting (usually standing) to work.
Then I work whilst at work.
Then I come home and do – again – many of the items listed above that happened in the morning.
Weekends are basically my mornings and evenings in stereo.
If I’m lucky, I may get to read a section of a Saturday paper, unless
a) Mum has taken everything except sport and employment or
b) AB has cut a big hole in spectrum to take the Suduko to work.
Otherwise it is just a rolling cavalcade of bending over and picking things up, washing, hanging out washing, putting washing away, taking kids to sport and/or homeopaths (where I can hear how happy they’d be not living with me).
I also get L.O.T.S of visits from my Mum, who, if you had forgotten, lives upstairs. She comes down with lots of great ideas about
a) moving (normally to a smaller house with less separation than we have now,
b) things I should do with the children,
c) passive agressive requests for help at moving items around the backyard or
d) trips to the nursery.
Occasionally my brother drops in with my niece. That involves my house actually becoming a supermarket and an open-door policy to come in and help yourself to whatever you need or have forgotten to bring to look after the little gem. That can even involve using my computer to upload and send images – oh, always asking if its OK, just after
a) the items have already been borrowed or
b) you’re already standing at my pantry, even if I am on the phone or on the toilet or
c) already walking past me into our office and sitting at the computer.
It’s around this time I
a) maliciously attack our floor with the vacuum or
b) get angry at my kids or
c) stroppy with my mother or
d) relentless with my eating.
What gets me in all of this is the expectation through inaction.
It is obviously expected of me that
a) I will take out the massive pile of magazines I de-shelved three weeks ago, as they have sat in the middle of our lounge room ever since.
b) I am meant to lug several years of white and yellow pages to the recycling as they have stood tall and proud in the corner for the better part of 18 months.
c) I am meant to do the washing as otherwise it festers in the laundry, the loungeroom, the hallway and our bedroom floor.
d) I am meant to hang the washing out as otherwise it sits in the machine for days. And days. And days.
e) I am meant to empty the dishwasher as the plates, bowls, saucepans, cutting boards that line every single benchtop in our kitchen tell me so.
f) I am meant to keep our cupboards in some semblance of order as no one else seems to notice or care they don’t shut properly anymore or stuff comes tumbling out when you do open them. g) I am meant to put all the washing away as otherwise it just piles up on the back table or on the chair or floor of our bedroom.
h) I am meant to do the grocery shopping as no-one else ever offers to.
So yesterday I cracked.
Think screaming, think tears, think begging for support, input and pro-active involvement in the household, think storming out, think sitting in the car in the driveway sobbing, think small child coming up to me and hugging me saying “I love you Mummy” over and over and then saying, as he burst into tears, “you’re making me cry now”. Think no apology, no support, no comfort. Think of disappearing off to bedroom and sulking in dark for better part of an hour. Think no anything. Nothing. Not a nada. Think small child coming up to me hours later saying, “I can tell you’re sad on the inside Mummy”.
And this is my life.
I find weekends challenging.