Flat Out

There’s an old saying: be careful what you wish for…it just might come true.

As a mother and stepmother, with two out of three children classified as ‘special needs’, you don’t really get a lot of time to yourself. Even husbands take their fair share of work.

But there’s a big difference between wanting some down time and being forced into it.

10 days after I blew my back out I’m getting a touch of cabin fever.

And I’m fast running out of ideas here.

I’m trying not to get stressed about the mess that’s sitting there staring me in the face waiting for me to get to it. I’m trying not to feel anxious that there’s people to see and places to be. And I’m trying not to anticipate more pain from simply doing the basics of childcare and housework. But there’s really not a lot one can do when one is forced into staying still.

So I go from lying flat out on the bed, to being strapped to a TENs machine, and moving slower than a turtle (and way slower than the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles my son so loves) from room to room.

This evening my Beloved thought I was up to a bath, so he turned on the taps and sloshed in some special stuff in a bid to help me unwind.

Unfortunately he was a little too generous with the bath products, probably thinking the more the merrier.

If you’ve ever seen pictures or those TV shows where someone adds a little too much laundry powder to the washing machine, you can guess what happened next.

With the spa jets on full, and my back frozen into position once more, I found myself slowly disappearing beneath a white wall of froth. And with the sound of the motor echoing around our miniscule bathroom, it seems no one could hear my pathetic little pleas for “Help!” from their spot in front of the television.

To make matters worse, when I finally was able to break through the pain barrier in order to make a desperate lunge for the ‘Off’ button on the spa, I sloshed enough water up the sides to promptly douse the candles my Beloved had ever so thoughtfully lit to set the mood, and upended my little tipple of Baileys by the bath. The sight of the ice cubes disappearing beneath the waves brought back memories of the ‘Titanic’, destined for a similar fate to Jack (for the solitary soul who hasn’t seen James Cameron’s version, rent it when you get a spare three hours or so and you’ll know what I mean).

I could only console myself with the thought that if milk baths were good enough for Cleopatra, they’re good enough for me. (Not sure about any beneficial effects Baileys Irish Cream® might have on the skin, though.)

It was at this time that the children decided Mama needed company in the bath, and I was joined by two slippery little critters amidst the bubbles.

After 15 minutes of this I was given permission to leave them to it, and hauled myself out of the tub and into standing position, flailing about for the towel which was just out of reach, before I finally caught hold of a thread on the corner and attempted to dry myself off.

Sadly, the entire episode didn't quite have the desired effect of relaxing me, and I shuffled to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, completely exhausted and still slightly damp around the ankles.

Luckily it was my Beloved’s night off and there was sufficient food in the freezer for him to rustle up some grits for himself and the kids. I was also in prime position for the regular bedtime story then simply bid them all goodnight, took my evening dose of painkillers and drifted off to sleep.

With a bit of luck this bad back will all be behind me soon enough (pun intended) and it’ll be business as usual before too long (minus any scrubbing of showers for the foreseeable future).

And if I happen to notice any significant improvement in skin tone- who knows, milk might make a regular appearance in my bathing beauty routine. But I think I'll keep the Baileys out of the bubbles just the same.

Jx
©2010

Pray, May I get some Privacy in the Privy?

Never, since I had children, have I been allowed to go to the bathroom in peace.

Not once, I tell you.

My Beloved, on the other hand, (along with the husbands of every other woman I know when the subject has come up in conversation) can do his ablutions in absolute privacy.

The man can even wallow in the bathtub reading a book for up to an hour undisturbed.

But, as soon as I even think about taking a shower or answering the call of Nature, the natural reaction of my children is to desperately need me for something that cannot possibly wait just a few minutes more.

Due to a design flaw (just one of the many) in our supposed award-winning-architect designed (read: male, in every sense of the word) house, if the doors to the Master bedroom and the family laundry are open simultaneously, the neighbours get a direct view into our room…and whatever’s going on in there at the time.

Worst time is first thing in the morning, when the kids duly deposit their dirty washing then just have to come into my room whilst I’m having a rinse. Yes, all too often I’ve been caught with a real ‘roo-in-the-headlights look as too late I realize my error in strutting out of the shower sans towel.

The same architect also thought it a good idea to install the type of window in the ensuite that if opened to let the steam out or fresh air in, enables the next door neighbours- and those next door to them- a clear view through too. I’m positive it’s not quite what the muppets meant when they sang about how you get to meet the people in your street, on those children’s TV shows. (Just quietly, I've never lived in the kind of neighbourhood where you meet the kind of people they do on a daily basis!)

Nonetheless, I am sure that the entire neighbourhood knows it whenever I’m ‘visiting the ladies’- if not for the aforementioned ludicrous layout, but by the accompanying “I am in the bathroom, please leave me be!” from me.

I actually started composing this blog in my head whilst parked upon the porcelain- to the strains of “Mu-um, he called me dumbhead!” and “Mu-um, can you fill up my water bottle?” and this particular chorus also included my Beloved at the door: “Are you in there? You’re wanted on the ‘phone.”

For goodness sake, let me pee in peace please!

But no, a quiet time on the pot is not my lot in life. Nor can I ever seek solitude in the shower. As for tranquility in the tub- forget about it.

So, again I pose the question: does a mother ever get some privacy in the privy?

Unfortunately every mum I’ve asked has the same answer, and it is not the same one to: Does a bear poop in the woods?!

Jx
©2009