The mother load


Tell me I am not the only one for which this scene plays out regularly:

– I have my hands up a chickens arse stuffing it for dinner and while Chef is sitting on the lounge a child comes to me, ‘MAAAARM, can I have a drink of water’, ‘what else might you say there?’, ‘now?’, ‘not quite, try again’, ‘pleeeease’, ‘of course you can but can you ask Daddy to do it as I am covered in raw chicken,’

– I am on the toilet and while Chef is sitting on the lounge a child comes to me, ‘MAAAARM, can I have a glass of water’ (see above) or ‘MAAAARM, Oscar/Felix/Jasper/Grover is being a meany’ or ‘MAAAARM, see this toy here (shoving catalogue under my nose) I want it. Can I get it’ or ‘MAAAARM can you get me dressed’

– I am on the phone and … see above

– I am in the shower and … see above

– I am hanging out washing and… see above

– I am vacuuming and … see above

– I am hiding in our bedroom for five fucking minutes peace and… see above.

What then follows is generally a meltdown of epic proportions going something like this: ‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO  I want YOU to get it for me/do it/sit with me on the lounge/get me dressed/get me dry/clean my teeth/put me to bed.’

HOLY DUCK FLAPPING SHIT CRACKERS people, there are THREE adults in this house and generally at least TWO on duty that can be called upon.

I realise that when Chef puts in the big hours the kids kinda get out of practice in knowing that he is perfectly capable of doing things to help them just as skilfully as I but MAN – it’s freaking DRIVING ME NUTSO.

That’s all really.

Just wanted to share that.