Well that didn’t quite go how I thought it would

So dudes, I’m alive! I made it to Christmas! To BEYOND Christmas!

Christmas Eve saw a phone call derail proceedings somewhat, reassuring me that whatever water has passed under the bridge of my parents is not enough.

Surprisingly 3/4 bottle of champagne did not dull the depression and anger that triggered in me.

Neither did eating my bodyweight on Christmas Day or drinking another whole bottle of sparkling shiraz.

Neither did having chocolate for breakfast three days in a row.

Or reintroducing butter to my diet.

Or making my own mayonnaise, eating potato salad, or baking – and eating – bread.

Curiously, the volume and interactions between four over-tired, cranky, hyped, poorly-fed boys did little to improve my mindset.

Surprisingly, Chef being ill throughout the whole period and basically in bed for the two days off he had over Christmas did little to alleviate my stress.

You can see where this is heading.

Today featured a lot of hovering by mum as she sensed my parlous state – but of course her ‘helping’ was not seen be me as such.

Today featured the boys being particularly fractious (it was unseasonably cold and wet today) with myriad fights and spats and all the rest.

It all came to a head as Chef arrived home from work and Oscar and Grover came barrelling into my room with Oscar claiming Grover had weed on his (as in Oscar’s) bed. Indeed he had.

KA-BOOOOOOM!

OH.MY.GOD. The screaming that came forth from my being.

Something along the lines of it being bad enough I had parents incapable of treating each other nicely despite having 26 years to heal the wounds but that I had bred four children incapable of being nice to each other was beyond the pale. (or pail? That’s making my neck itch right there.) Something something something this has been the worst three days of my life in quite some time something something something selfish, ungrateful, mean-spirited varmints something something something

STORM OUT!

DOOR SLAM!!!

I sat on the beach. In the howling wind and rain. I ran in the soft sand until my heart hurt and I couldn’t get a breath. I sat on the beach some more. I thought a lot about ending it because this will always be a part of my life and that is just not acceptable or bearable. It’s not a phase. It too will not pass. At least not until my parents are in the grave. I sat on the beach some more. Ran some more. And finally cried. Big heaving howling sobs. For about a minute. And then it was gone.

I came up off the beach and sheltered in a little nook of the surf club out of the wind, slumped against the wall and watched as some guys came in from kite surfing, totally pumped and exhilarated from their wild ride out in squally seas.

I eventually walked home and slunk off to our bedroom both embarrassed about my behaviour and not ready to face the boys. I listened as they had their showers and baths and went to bed WITHOUT A PROTEST OR A PEEP for Chef. AT 8 PM.

And here I sit. 10pm. The Perfect Storm playing out on the TV and absolutely none the wiser as to how to deal with/react/resolve/accept the situation as it is. I’m doing a fair deal of catastrophising and grand-standing but I know nothing good will come of that.

But there is absolutely nothing to come of discussing this with either my mother or father. I understand both of their positions. And here I am. Stuck in the middle again.

Dad’s Day – aka the day all the sex nagging finally gets results

It’s Father’s Day today.

Chef will be getting pancakes for breakfast and a range of thoughtful gifts. Like chocolate. And cookbooks. And a coffee cup. Because you know, he’d never have been expecting any of those.

Then I’ll be choofing off to Picton to (finally) see my Dad who had a knee replacement three weeks ago. I never got to see him at hospital with that as he was almost two hours away and the well, hello life and husband’s falling off motorbikes and so forth. It was his birthday last weekend which was when I escaped the infinite game of dodgeball that is my life. That was OK, I’d given them months of warning I wouldn’t be around and it was long before the knee surgery was planned. So you know, I really need to put in an appearance today to shower him with homemade gifts and small children threatening to jump/touch/breath on his new knee.

Chef is taking the bigger boys to the Carlton vs Sydney elimination final.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Mum is ‘recovering’. The surgery took five hours and four surgeons but it was done calmly and methodically and with great care. You know, for an orthopaedic surgeon to say that means they actually didn’t throw you around and see just how far that bone can ‘bend’.

Ahhh, orthopaedics, the rugby union of surgery.

It turns out all the soft tissue that had been exposed to the original replacement was ‘abnormal’, thereby confirming their suspicions that mum’s body was rejecting it. Yes, it turns out mum is one of the ‘extremely rare’ individuals allergic to the chromium cobalt components of the otherwise titanium replacement. Thankfully the other hip and now this one are locked and loaded with pure titanium pieces.

But, and isn’t my life just one big fat BUT. She had to have two bags of blood on Friday, such was her weakness and blood levels of whatever it is in your blood they measure to determine if you need new blood. Whatever that is should not dip below 100 so when mum’s went to 86 and then 74 they hooked her up. Her colour was much better yesterday but now she’s reacting (as in itching all over) to the oral slow release pain medication they’re giving her, which is not surprising as it is a morphine derivative and HELLO, ALLERGIC.TO.MORPHINE. Insert Mr Bean tick of disgust here.

So you know, business as usual at this end.

Onward.