The good, the bad, the indifferent, the ugly, the bad and the effing brilliant

So I went to work.
I wore some clothes that kind of fitted but were at least clean and some shoes that were too big and kept falling off all day.
I am.all.class.
Still, it was TOPS seeing HEAPS of people I love working with.
Who all seemed genuinely happy to see me.
And everyone loved my hair and commented on my complexion.
Clearly domestic oblivion suits me to.the.ground.
Grover took to daycare like any poor neglected fourth child who suddenly has three carers looking after his every need would.

Although I don’t think they gave him enough milk – the poor child almost sucked my nipple damn near off when I fed him before heading home.
He was even more chatty than his normal chatty self tonight, as if he was telling me all about his day with the seemingly limitless supply of toys, other children and attention.
Jasper, on the other hand, has decided the best way to say goodbye to me is to not say goodbye at all.
Instead, cling to my leg, look downcast, refuse to leave my side, start doing the nervous pressing of fingertips together a la Felix circa 2004 and then when I because I was meant to be at work pitch an impressive screaming fit. Preferably with kicking. And more screaming. And perhaps some outstretched arms to fully explore the abandoned child theme.
At work I’m sitting with a completely unrelated team with people behind two women I’ve never met before. I’m facing a wall.
In a corner.
It’s like Super Nanny for grownups.
I have a desk bigger by about two thirds than I had when I was working full time.
I also have a brand new shiny computer and a keyboard with really awesome keys that have resistance.
When our team relocated up two floors in my absence all my crap files were dumped in two boxes.
Unloading them was like my own mini Christmas party.
And then a cleansing spring clean as I binned about two thirds of it all.
Then it was time to go home.
And the parking station, where the guys this morning has agreed to let me be ‘earlybird’ even though I was a whole e.i.g.h.t. minutes late clearly duped me.
Because when he said I was too late and I requested he open the boomgate so I could leave as I wasn’t about to pay $48 for parking he said it’d be fine.
But it wasn’t.
Because this afternoon?
It cost me $48.
And suddenly I found myself in floods of tears.
Was it relief I had gotten through the first day? Was it utter pissed-off-ness that I didn’t make a big enough scene at the parking station and get the earlybird rate? Was it that I hadn’t taken my meds since Saturday due to the whole spewing caper? Was it that I had about two hours of broken sleep last night as I didn’t get to sleep until after 2 and then Grover woke at 2.21; 4:18 and 5:56?
Who the fuck knows but I started to cry anyway.
Then I picked the boys up from daycare.
And Jasper squealed ‘mummy’ as he spied me at the door and did one of those running jumping squeezing hugs around your neck that are UNSURPASSABLE by ANY other physical show of love in the whole wide world.
And Grover did those heart-melting little stiff jumps of excitement babies do at seeing me and then almost ripped my shirt off looking for the BREAST GODDAMN IT.
Then I rang Chef to tell him we were (finally – it was 6pm by the time I’d left work, got to daycare, talked to teachers, signed them both out, collected all their crap gear, got them out to the car and fed Grover) on our way home and he sounded like shit down.
I enquired as to his welfare and lo, he felt like shit really sick and of course had The Gastro, albeit without the vehemence of the Saturday matinee and evening showings.
Which made me burst into tears again as I spluttered something about getting home as soon as I could.
And on getting home at around 7pm with Chef looking green on the lounge and two little people to feed and bath and bed and two bigger little people to see and talk to and help with homework which was meant to have been completed on arriving home after school but curiously needed to be done with MY help as I had Grover in the bath and Jasper on the bathroom floor with a nappy leaking POO up.his.back. all made me kind of reach my almost breaking point and lo there was much use of the cranky but I’ voice.
So then it was 9.30 before I got out of the little boys’ room from getting them off to sleep to discover I must clean up from dinner, cover another FOUR FRIGGIN BOOKS (what’s with the water torture of book covering??? As if the eleventy gagillion I covered in crap-arse contact last night wasn’t enough), hang out two loads of washing particularly if the children are to wear uniforms tomorrow and the little guys more than a nappy and I realised that I felt really REALLY tired.
And what else do you do when it’s approaching 10pm, you are teary, tired, under-medicated and faced with several tasks that need to be completed before going to bed?
You bake of course.
Choc banana bread.
But then, just as you’re putting the two mini loaves into the oven, you drop one.
Upside down.
On the oven door.
A normal person would have just scooped it up, binned it, turned the lights out and gone to bed but no.
I scraped it up with a spatula, back into the tin and baked it anyway.
The other one is fine.
The manky one tastes ok, even if it is in bits because I had to pull the baking paper, that had smooshed all through the mix as it started to fast-bake onto the oven door, off.
And then I saw something sitting on the office desk.
It was an envelope.
From overseas.
With a little hand drawn blackbird on the back of it and some extra special lint all the way from Tuvalu stuck onto the sticky tape holding the package of goodness down.
So the washing?
The book covering?
The washing up?
Are all still sitting there as I just spent some quality time with two Pottery Barn catalogues from the wondrous life force that is Blackbird.
She even put comments on things for me, which made me laugh out loud.
And look, I don’t know about the whole US as the world’s superpower anymore, but I do know something.
The US of A sure does know how to do a catalogue.
Seriously. They’re B.O.O.K.S.
And I know they must put one out every other week.
Ten points on things I adore (and how I would have LOVED to scan in the pages and come over all Bossy with natty comments on the pictures, but dudes that washing/washing up/book covering is still sitting there not done and besides I don’t know how to make the writing big enough to see the way she does) in no particular order:

  1. While it is addressed to Blackbird, directly underneath it says ‘or current resident’
    Talk about opportunistic.
  2. Anyone who buys baby clothes that require ironing (short of the family heirloom christening gown) deserves everything that comes to them.
    So long as it includes dead frogs falling from the sky and Magnolia on loop.
  3. The Pottery Barn is all about labelling everything. I mean, if you were at all paranoid, all those Oprah/Dr Phil/Martha watching white women intent on recreating these serene scenes laden with dust collecting trinkets and so.much.fabric. might think Pottery Barn thought they were so giddy with the possibilities of ticking, embroidered linens, wall stencils and storage solutions you dang near gone and forgot the name of your own child
    Mind you, if you’d called them Devon or Trevor as some of the pictures would have you believe, who could blame you.
  4. Why is it we all find smocking so endearing.
  5. I had to look up the word pique and you know what? Without the accent on the e, it means to affect with sharp irritation and resentment, especially by some wound to pride
  6. They actually sell a silver spoon
  7. You know, when we don’t even have a bedhead, I would have found it hard forking out almost a grand on a cot.
  8. They show all these cots with all this padding in it which CONTRAVENES every international SIDS law possible.
    Don’t they know the SIDS police sneak around looking in the bedroom windows of families with young babies to check there is nothing in the cot except the child?
    But seriously, it is actually quite negligent.
  9. They’re also quite partial to putting the child’s date of birth on the wall.
    For those of us with hundreds many children this is probably not a bad idea as tonight I wanted to say “Oscar, pick your towel up, do a wee and clean your teeth” but said “Grover, Felix, Jasper – GOD – Oscar, pick up your teeth, GOD towel, EUGH, clean your weeteeth and do a bed I mean wee”
    No wonder I’m going to hell. For all that cussing alone.
  10. They make it all look so perfect and you know, you can recreate that look for the requisite squillion dollars but
    Then that box you labelled ‘pens’ will have a Superman head, a Thunderbird rocket, some lego bits, maybe a DS game card, a lot of lint and probably an old apple core in it. The pens will be under the bed. Without their lids.
    Those towels hanging just so in the bathroom will be on.the.floor and probably sporting a few bleach stains
    Those beds? Will all that exquisite looking linen? And all.those.FREAKING.pillows*? Will only look like that if you commit to making their beds every single day and then not letting them touch it until they go to bed that night.
    And if you commit to that then you need to be committed.

And I’m only half way through the pottery barn kids and baby catalogue. Do NOT get me started on the {re}define your style homewares, which involve being all ecological by getting rid of your current furniture and buying more More MORE!** Not to mention the storage system which has the noticeboard on the back wall behind the dog bed, which would require you to stand on the dog manky dogbed to pin something to it.

*show me ONE boy willing to have ten display pillows on his bed and I’ll show you the son you will NOT be getting any grandchildren from

** but teaming it with home furnishings in shades of green and featuring botanical motifs will mean at least you look like you care for the environment.