Showing posts with label housework. Show all posts
Showing posts with label housework. Show all posts
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Sunday, June 10, 2012
My Name Is Joe...
I've
developed an addiction.
I don't
drink, I don't smoke, I don't do drugs. Nor do I gamble, and I am married- with
children- so there's NO chance of me being a sex addict ("More's the
pity" I hear my Beloved mutter). I've never had what you call an addictive
personality (unless one counts an ongoing love affair with chocolate products).
Nonetheless,
I have picked up a bad habit.
I seem to be
slightly obsessed with social media.
Not that I'm
on it 24/7 (maybe 2/7 is closer to the mark) but there's something about it
that draws me in on an almost-daily-basis.
I'm not the
only one. You only have to check out the collection of cartoons cropping up- on
the internet of course- to see much of the modern world is similarly occupied.
I'm sure, if I Googled it, there'd be support groups for it.
Some of my
friends seem to live online...at the very least their lives are being narrated
in a suite of tweets or a posse of posts. One friend got to the point where she
would actually speak in status updates. Joe Bloggs thinks
that's taking things a little too far!
I am also fascinated
by the fascination with the number of 'friends' or followers one has. I mean,
who in the real world can honestly say just how many friends they have on any
given day? Simply consider BFFs, workmates, schoolfriends, various other
associates, siblings, spouses and offspring (just for the record, I have 33 'first
cousins' alone, and very quickly lose count after that)... Yet we're keen to
keep an eye on the number of friends on Facebook,
Inc. and the like. Heaven help us if we're unfriended for any reason. (Here's where I say, by some strange
quirk, my tally changes depending on the device I'm using, so I tend to stick
with the one where I have the most.) (See, only slightly obsessed!)
But yes, I
confess to logging on to look at what others have got to say, how others are
spending their day, and occasionally come up with suitably witty or
thought-provoking comments of my own, in 140 characters or less (insert
appropriate emoticon here).
In a world
where so much is seen, not necessarily heard, one wants to be seen to be having as much fun as
everybody else; hopefully the grass isn't greener on the other side of the
screen.
Conversely,
if things are a little rough in the real world, it's nice to escape to a
virtual reality where one can hang with friends, blast those bubbles, or build
a 'ville with no ill will.
So I admit my
addiction, minor it may be, and happily click away each day, albeit at the
expense of my study or the housework at times. (Seriously, who wouldn't rather
surf the 'net than sort socks - we all know how much fun that can
be, right?!)
Yes here I
state that I am just a little OC with my PC.
And you know
what? I "Like" it!
Now, I was
going to write some more, but someone's just commented on my profile pic...
Jx
©2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Clean Machine
Whose
bright idea was it to put white cupboard doors in the kitchen?
I
asked myself this very question for the umpteenth time as I crouched down on
the linoleum to attack the marks that were all too apparent against the creamy
background, if you looked closely enough.
Like
so many endeavours, it seemed like a good idea at the time- the light laminate
would brighten the previously cacky khaki that graced the room, and give the
impression of more space in the tiny little galley style kitchen.
But
I didn’t think it through, obviously, and forgot an often-used ingredient in
food preparation at our house: my family.
Anyone
else who’s the proud owner of a husband and/or small children will know only
too well the amount of mess they can make. For those who don’t, take a quick
read of Dr Seuss’s ‘The Cat In the Hat Comes Back’ to see how one seemingly
small spot can spread to alarming proportions by someone trying to be
‘helpful’.
With
the imminent arrival of the mother-in-law (M-I-L) on the weekend I cast a
critical eye across the workspace and in lieu of little cats A through Z, I
thought I’d best get going on a quick clean-up myself. Easier said than done.
Especially with creamy cupboards in the mix.
As
soon as I was satisfied that one door wasn’t dirty, I noticed with chagrin that
its neighbour now needed attention and made my way around the kitchen scrubbing
one then the next. Since it’s better for
bad backs to actually sit on the floor to complete this feat, I found myself
unfortunately (or conveniently- the jury’s still out on that one) placed at eye
level with the kickboards below. And my
eyes did not like what they saw. After
I’d given those a wipe down I was drawn to the stainless steel appliances in
the room (another bright idea that in hindsight isn’t so shiny). Sure they look nice and tidy, but the
professed finger-mark-free finish sure isn’t living up to its promise and I
spent a good few minutes polishing the prints off, before dragging out the
glass cleaner to ensure the oven door was also spot-free.
It
was only then when I looked at our shiny new splashback that I realized our
folly was greater than I had even imagined.
Sure
it all looks spick and span in the showroom where it’s someone’s job to keep it
squeaky clean for the customers, but give it a decent dinnertime or two and
you’ll be lucky to see your reflection peering back at you from its once-glossy
surface.
And
on it went. Me moving ‘round the room
with my environmentally-friendly cleaning products, while the clocks on the
oven and the microwave teased me with their ticking, bringing the inspector
ever closer (OK so she doesn’t come with a white glove, but then again she
doesn’t need to!). Meanwhile the kids were causing chaos in another part of the
house, while My Beloved was outside playing handyman with the drains that never
fail to fill to overflowing this time of year.
You
can imagine my reaction when a mud-speckled man came into my kitchen looking
for a well-earned drink.
“Out,
out damn spot” I cried while flapping the now tattered dish cloth at him, and
chased
him from the house to scrape off another layer of dirt before being allowed
back in.
So
now I am once again the proud if not anxious owner of a sparkling clean
kitchen, with every white door, glossy splashback, and stainless steel
appliance accounted for.
And
I am determined it will remain that way for the duration of M-I-L’s visit.
Or
until dinnertime anyway.
Jx
©2010
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Mirror Mirror
Our family bathroom has a mirror that measures roughly 5 feet along and 3 feet high.
It’s a beauty.
All I can say is that the previous owner/builder of the property must have had slight narcissistic tendencies, but I’m not going to complain; not when there’s enough space to stand two children and a husband side by side at the sink with enough elbow room to avoid small scale conflicts.
Most of the time.
But any time I attempt to utilize the thing myself, I swear there is toothpaste covering every square inch of it! I know- I’ve just cleaned the thing again. And no one seems to see it but me…
There are a lot of home truths I’ve learnt since bringing my babies home:
1. Boys smell*. They really do. And no amount of washing, changing, and deodorizing seems to keep it at bay for any great length of time. Must be that Y chromosome.
2. Children are under the impression that being bored is the same thing as being hungry. It doesn’t matter if they’ve just eaten you out of house and home and have just sat through the latest family friendly feature film…they are like a crevasse in living form.
3. Kids are also under the assumption that Colonel Sanders makes toilet paper, as they seem to expect a ‘magic barrel’ with a neverending supply. As a friend of mine says: there is nothing that can come out of a human bottom to require that much paper to clean it. But apparently both she and I are wrong.
And
4. One small pea-size squirt of toothpaste (as recommended by dentists everywhere) can create enough white specks to cover previously mentioned 5 x 3 foot mirror! (And have you ever noticed that it doesn’t matter what colour the toothpaste is going in, it always comes out white?)
Luckily I’ve also discovered some nifty new wipes designed specifically for mirrors and glass-fronted furniture that promise to get “rid of streaks and leave your glass and mirror surfaces sparkling”. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that these wonder wipes will also leave an invisible coating of something akin to Teflon™ so that next time the offspring are on dental duty any sprays will simply go away.
Of course it doesn’t help matters that on the last visit to the dentist the nurse gave the “helpful” suggestion that - in order to brush teeth correctly every time- one should give ten decent ‘flicks’ in every direction. Now, you and I both know that by definition of ‘direction’ that she meant top, bottom, and side to side, in order to ensure every little nook and cranny and wobbly tooth gets a look in. Seems my children took her literally and literally flick the toothpaste in every direction!
I kid you not, this time it was even on the fluorescent light above the mirror!
Anyways, at least the entire bathroom region is looking spick and span and shiny again, thanks to my nifty new wipes. But I bet not one of the aforementioned family members will notice.
Now all I need to do is finish scrubbing the toilet bowls which also seem to be almost permanently sporting splatter no matter how clean I try to keep them (*see point #1 above), and replace yet another toilet roll.
Before I get back into it, I’ll just leave you with one of my favourite jokes of all time, which I think you’ll agree ties in rather nicely with the topic.
Sister Mary Margaret bursts into Mother Superior’s office with the complaint that the kids have been at it again and the boys’ toilet in particular was in a shocking state:
“The little devils have been having yet another competition about who can get highest up the wall above the urinal! I had to send for the cleaner yet again, and just as we were going back to tidy up the stinky streams, more of the bedeviled little creatures were in there having another contest."
“And what did you do?“ asked Mother Superior
“I hit the roof!!”
Jx
©2011
It’s a beauty.
All I can say is that the previous owner/builder of the property must have had slight narcissistic tendencies, but I’m not going to complain; not when there’s enough space to stand two children and a husband side by side at the sink with enough elbow room to avoid small scale conflicts.
Most of the time.
But any time I attempt to utilize the thing myself, I swear there is toothpaste covering every square inch of it! I know- I’ve just cleaned the thing again. And no one seems to see it but me…
There are a lot of home truths I’ve learnt since bringing my babies home:
1. Boys smell*. They really do. And no amount of washing, changing, and deodorizing seems to keep it at bay for any great length of time. Must be that Y chromosome.
2. Children are under the impression that being bored is the same thing as being hungry. It doesn’t matter if they’ve just eaten you out of house and home and have just sat through the latest family friendly feature film…they are like a crevasse in living form.
3. Kids are also under the assumption that Colonel Sanders makes toilet paper, as they seem to expect a ‘magic barrel’ with a neverending supply. As a friend of mine says: there is nothing that can come out of a human bottom to require that much paper to clean it. But apparently both she and I are wrong.
And
4. One small pea-size squirt of toothpaste (as recommended by dentists everywhere) can create enough white specks to cover previously mentioned 5 x 3 foot mirror! (And have you ever noticed that it doesn’t matter what colour the toothpaste is going in, it always comes out white?)
Luckily I’ve also discovered some nifty new wipes designed specifically for mirrors and glass-fronted furniture that promise to get “rid of streaks and leave your glass and mirror surfaces sparkling”. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that these wonder wipes will also leave an invisible coating of something akin to Teflon™ so that next time the offspring are on dental duty any sprays will simply go away.
Of course it doesn’t help matters that on the last visit to the dentist the nurse gave the “helpful” suggestion that - in order to brush teeth correctly every time- one should give ten decent ‘flicks’ in every direction. Now, you and I both know that by definition of ‘direction’ that she meant top, bottom, and side to side, in order to ensure every little nook and cranny and wobbly tooth gets a look in. Seems my children took her literally and literally flick the toothpaste in every direction!
I kid you not, this time it was even on the fluorescent light above the mirror!
Anyways, at least the entire bathroom region is looking spick and span and shiny again, thanks to my nifty new wipes. But I bet not one of the aforementioned family members will notice.
Now all I need to do is finish scrubbing the toilet bowls which also seem to be almost permanently sporting splatter no matter how clean I try to keep them (*see point #1 above), and replace yet another toilet roll.
Before I get back into it, I’ll just leave you with one of my favourite jokes of all time, which I think you’ll agree ties in rather nicely with the topic.
Sister Mary Margaret bursts into Mother Superior’s office with the complaint that the kids have been at it again and the boys’ toilet in particular was in a shocking state:
“The little devils have been having yet another competition about who can get highest up the wall above the urinal! I had to send for the cleaner yet again, and just as we were going back to tidy up the stinky streams, more of the bedeviled little creatures were in there having another contest."
“And what did you do?“ asked Mother Superior
“I hit the roof!!”
Jx
©2011
Friday, January 15, 2010
Back chat
I’ve just spent the better part of 4 days flat on my back in bed.
And not for any fun reasons either (none of the ol’ nudge nudge wink wink going on here, I can assure you).
Nosiree, the culprit of my current bed-a-thon is the shower in our ensuite.
See, my Beloved and I decided our joint New Year’s resolution was to finally finish off the plethora of renovation jobs on the boil in our home (OK, I decided, my Beloved begrudgingly agreed- only after the wardrobe fell apart in his hands whilst moving kids’ bedrooms around).
So I arranged for a “no-obligation measure & quote” from a local company that does the lot- kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms. Unfortunately, the only time the sales rep had available in the foreseeable future was 8am last Wednesday, which meant I had to get up at some ungodly hour of the school holidays, and do a quick tidy up in the relevant rooms.
After preparing and putting away the breakfast items in near-record time (if you have kids you know how long that can actually take), I made the fatal decision to give the showers a quick scrub before the fellow came in with his tape measure (didn’t want to leave any telltale soap scum or rogue body hairs, if you know what I mean). So I squat down in the shower with spray and brush and set to work. Since I have a pre-existing back condition (slipped and bulging discs, bilateral pars defect, sciatica, nothing too outrageous) I was taking proper precautions, using a long handled brush and not staying in one position too long. Apparently I wasn’t conscientious enough as my back kept grumbling about the activities long after I’d finished.
I survived a play-date at Maccas through a haze of pain, before returning home with barely enough time to restock the kids, pack the swimming bag, and head for lessons at the local pool (for more on that particular excitement, see ‘Sink or Swim’). Still struck by some foolish urge to clean house, I was merrily (if not stiffly) hunkered down in front of the front loader when my back seized with an ungodly pain, and I froze in position half-up/half-down. Calling for the kids to get daddy to help me, I was in too much pain to even laugh at the way they both barreled into the bedroom shrieking “Daddy, daddy, mummy’s stuck! HELP!!”
My bleary-eyed Beloved staggered into the laundry which is so small one can’t turn around in it at the best of times, and did his best to drag me upright, helping me across the hall to the bed where he all but dumped me. Well, I was so incapacitated I couldn’t even remove my shoes, let alone reach for the trusty painkillers on the bedside table. So while he managed to get the kids off to their 30 minute lesson (albeit 15 minutes late) I lay on the bed dreaming of pain relief.
Thankfully he didn’t have to work that night, and next morning was in charge of the children while I still lay in bed and moaned (obviously, I need to find me some stronger painkillers). Unfortunately, nature called, as it generally does after the bladder brews away all night long, but when I attempted to sit up to get up, I was overcome with the instant and intense urge to vomit. Deciding I’d rather do so in private, I somehow managed to roll and crawl across the bed and into the bathroom (with my Beloved hovering concernedly nearby). I then experienced perhaps the most terrifying few minutes of my life.
If the waves of pain and nausea weren’t enough to contend with, I then started that shivery sweaty stuff you sometimes get- and my vision blurred then went black. Lucky I was sitting down because I couldn’t see a damn thing. I even had to put my hands to my eyes to make sure they were open! I had literally ‘blacked out’. Now if you’ve ever experienced this, you’ll have some idea of how I felt. And if like me, you are prone to the occasional panic attack, you’ll know just how much worse the sweating and shaking got! I was literally dripping with perspiration. Not that I could see it at the time.
Now, I have given birth to two decent-sized children- without epidural- but I have NEVER felt the kind of pain radiating up and down my back.
So I spent the next 3 days either flat out or sitting propped up on pillows, trying not to go any further insane.
And now there’s Vegemite on my foot.
If you must know, my Beloved had to work last night and I dropped the lid whilst making toast this morning. Since I can’t bend over I attempted to pick up the lid with my foot. Obviously my lower digits are not as dexterous as I would like, and all I managed to do was to flip the thing over, smearing the black stuff across the tops of my toes.
Talk about adding insult to injury.
So I’ve decided to leave the housecleaning caper to Cinderella et al for the time being. But since my fairy godmother is also taking extended leave, meanwhile the washing’s piling up, there’re dirty dishes in the sink, we’re running out of everything, and my To-Do List is so not getting Done.
What’s that old saying: you know you’re getting old when you back goes out more than you do… all I can say is Hellllooooo Old Age!
Jx
©2010
And not for any fun reasons either (none of the ol’ nudge nudge wink wink going on here, I can assure you).
Nosiree, the culprit of my current bed-a-thon is the shower in our ensuite.
See, my Beloved and I decided our joint New Year’s resolution was to finally finish off the plethora of renovation jobs on the boil in our home (OK, I decided, my Beloved begrudgingly agreed- only after the wardrobe fell apart in his hands whilst moving kids’ bedrooms around).
So I arranged for a “no-obligation measure & quote” from a local company that does the lot- kitchens, bathrooms, bedrooms. Unfortunately, the only time the sales rep had available in the foreseeable future was 8am last Wednesday, which meant I had to get up at some ungodly hour of the school holidays, and do a quick tidy up in the relevant rooms.
After preparing and putting away the breakfast items in near-record time (if you have kids you know how long that can actually take), I made the fatal decision to give the showers a quick scrub before the fellow came in with his tape measure (didn’t want to leave any telltale soap scum or rogue body hairs, if you know what I mean). So I squat down in the shower with spray and brush and set to work. Since I have a pre-existing back condition (slipped and bulging discs, bilateral pars defect, sciatica, nothing too outrageous) I was taking proper precautions, using a long handled brush and not staying in one position too long. Apparently I wasn’t conscientious enough as my back kept grumbling about the activities long after I’d finished.
I survived a play-date at Maccas through a haze of pain, before returning home with barely enough time to restock the kids, pack the swimming bag, and head for lessons at the local pool (for more on that particular excitement, see ‘Sink or Swim’). Still struck by some foolish urge to clean house, I was merrily (if not stiffly) hunkered down in front of the front loader when my back seized with an ungodly pain, and I froze in position half-up/half-down. Calling for the kids to get daddy to help me, I was in too much pain to even laugh at the way they both barreled into the bedroom shrieking “Daddy, daddy, mummy’s stuck! HELP!!”
My bleary-eyed Beloved staggered into the laundry which is so small one can’t turn around in it at the best of times, and did his best to drag me upright, helping me across the hall to the bed where he all but dumped me. Well, I was so incapacitated I couldn’t even remove my shoes, let alone reach for the trusty painkillers on the bedside table. So while he managed to get the kids off to their 30 minute lesson (albeit 15 minutes late) I lay on the bed dreaming of pain relief.
Thankfully he didn’t have to work that night, and next morning was in charge of the children while I still lay in bed and moaned (obviously, I need to find me some stronger painkillers). Unfortunately, nature called, as it generally does after the bladder brews away all night long, but when I attempted to sit up to get up, I was overcome with the instant and intense urge to vomit. Deciding I’d rather do so in private, I somehow managed to roll and crawl across the bed and into the bathroom (with my Beloved hovering concernedly nearby). I then experienced perhaps the most terrifying few minutes of my life.
If the waves of pain and nausea weren’t enough to contend with, I then started that shivery sweaty stuff you sometimes get- and my vision blurred then went black. Lucky I was sitting down because I couldn’t see a damn thing. I even had to put my hands to my eyes to make sure they were open! I had literally ‘blacked out’. Now if you’ve ever experienced this, you’ll have some idea of how I felt. And if like me, you are prone to the occasional panic attack, you’ll know just how much worse the sweating and shaking got! I was literally dripping with perspiration. Not that I could see it at the time.
Now, I have given birth to two decent-sized children- without epidural- but I have NEVER felt the kind of pain radiating up and down my back.
So I spent the next 3 days either flat out or sitting propped up on pillows, trying not to go any further insane.
And now there’s Vegemite on my foot.
If you must know, my Beloved had to work last night and I dropped the lid whilst making toast this morning. Since I can’t bend over I attempted to pick up the lid with my foot. Obviously my lower digits are not as dexterous as I would like, and all I managed to do was to flip the thing over, smearing the black stuff across the tops of my toes.
Talk about adding insult to injury.
So I’ve decided to leave the housecleaning caper to Cinderella et al for the time being. But since my fairy godmother is also taking extended leave, meanwhile the washing’s piling up, there’re dirty dishes in the sink, we’re running out of everything, and my To-Do List is so not getting Done.
What’s that old saying: you know you’re getting old when you back goes out more than you do… all I can say is Hellllooooo Old Age!
Jx
©2010
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Cinderfella
I’d like to refute recent findings that Australian men make the worst husbands when it comes to housework.
I’d like to … but I can’t.
See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)
And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.
According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.
Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.
I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.
Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).
So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.
I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).
I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.
Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.
And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.
Grrrrr.
Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.
Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.
All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.
Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.
Hmmm.
Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.
Jx
©2009
I’d like to … but I can’t.
See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)
And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.
According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.
Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.
I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.
Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).
So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.
I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).
I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.
Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.
And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.
Grrrrr.
Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.
Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.
All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.
Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.
Hmmm.
Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Good Morning...Let the Stress Begin!
Whoever said that Motherhood is not a fulltime job has never seen it from where I stand…
Daybreak, no not even that yet and already I hear my 7 y.o. son on the way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. A split second later, my 5 y.o. daughter tap taps on the bedroom door: “Good morning Mama, can I use your toilet?”
And so begins another day.
Actually, that’s how a good day starts at our place.
On a bad day, I’ve been up half the night with one child or another. Or with the dog whining outside because he’s dragged his bed halfway across the back patio and tipped the sheepskin off it again. Or I’ve had one of my less pleasant bouts of insomnia with bonus night terrors because my Beloved forgot to lock the door again when he went to work in the middle of the night. (Ha! May as well hang a sign out the front saying “Come on in; unattended and unsuspecting woman and small children inside!”), and grudgingly greet the dawn with yet another headache from lack of sleep.
So anyway, back to the original, happier start to the day…
After they empty their bladders they open their arms to me for our traditional “morning cuddle”. If I’m lucky, my daughter also serenades me with ‘the morning song’ - a little ditty I made up to help wake the kids up in a happy mood (I’m yet to discover one that works on their father!); my son, being all of 7 years old now, is way too old for that baby stuff, of course.
And then it starts…“Mu-um, I wanna watch that show on TV”, “Can I have another piece of breakfast?”, “I don’t want that on my sandwiches”, “I haven’t had my medicine yet”, “Can I go to someone’s place for a playdate today?”, “Do you know where my hat is?”, “I was supposed to give you this note yesterday”, “Do I have to go to school today?”, “I feel sick”, “I broke my shoelace again”, “When’s dad coming home?”, “I haven’t got anything to take for News!”, “Do you know where my splint is?”, “Why do I have to go to school?”, “I really feel sick”, “There’s no toothpaste left”, “When can we have a lunch order?”, “I hate doing homework”, “We forgot to clean our shoes again!”, “Mummy, I really truly feel sick now”
After all that, we have the usual mad panic to get out the door and down to school before the assembly begins, deliver the bags safe to the classroom and my children safe into the hands of the teachers for the next 6 hours, often a quick stop in at the office, then I get to begin my ‘real’ work for the day.
Given an all-too brief period of time before the afternoon school run, I manage to do a casual job, run an online support group, check the secretarial details of just one of the committees I’m on, try to catch up with people I’ve been neglecting, try to pay bills I can ignore no more, run to the shops (being creative with the family meals on an artist’s budget), glance again at the online certificate course I’ve signed up for (and estimate just how many assignments I can squeeze in before the final deadline), run another load of washing through the front loader and dryer, attempt to fold and put away the stuff that’s done, unload then repack the dishwasher, empty the garbage bins, sort the recycling, check the mail, clean up after the kids, clean up after the dog, clean up after the husband, clean up after myself!
Once the kids are collected it’s empty the school bags, identify or simply throw out uneaten foodstuffs left in lunchboxes, assist with any assessment tasks, ensure the uniforms actually make it into the laundry and school shoes are somewhere they can be found the next day, provide afternoon tea, referee any arguments along the way, do the artistic hunter-gatherer thing in time for tea, bathe the kids, repack the dishwasher, feed the dog and put him out for the night, read with the kids, turn off any unused appliances, lock up the house, all while keeping the children quiet while daddy gets some sleep.
And once the other half and offspring are finally quiet at the end of the day, I find time to reflect on an old piece of advice a lady once gave me - count your kids, and if you still have the same number you started out with, congratulate yourself!
Then I try to manage some sleep before it all begins again.
Yep, if that aforementioned 'whoever' had to walk a mile in my shoes, I am sure that before too long they would take off at a run - in the opposite direction!
Jx
©2009
Daybreak, no not even that yet and already I hear my 7 y.o. son on the way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. A split second later, my 5 y.o. daughter tap taps on the bedroom door: “Good morning Mama, can I use your toilet?”
And so begins another day.
Actually, that’s how a good day starts at our place.
On a bad day, I’ve been up half the night with one child or another. Or with the dog whining outside because he’s dragged his bed halfway across the back patio and tipped the sheepskin off it again. Or I’ve had one of my less pleasant bouts of insomnia with bonus night terrors because my Beloved forgot to lock the door again when he went to work in the middle of the night. (Ha! May as well hang a sign out the front saying “Come on in; unattended and unsuspecting woman and small children inside!”), and grudgingly greet the dawn with yet another headache from lack of sleep.
So anyway, back to the original, happier start to the day…
After they empty their bladders they open their arms to me for our traditional “morning cuddle”. If I’m lucky, my daughter also serenades me with ‘the morning song’ - a little ditty I made up to help wake the kids up in a happy mood (I’m yet to discover one that works on their father!); my son, being all of 7 years old now, is way too old for that baby stuff, of course.
And then it starts…“Mu-um, I wanna watch that show on TV”, “Can I have another piece of breakfast?”, “I don’t want that on my sandwiches”, “I haven’t had my medicine yet”, “Can I go to someone’s place for a playdate today?”, “Do you know where my hat is?”, “I was supposed to give you this note yesterday”, “Do I have to go to school today?”, “I feel sick”, “I broke my shoelace again”, “When’s dad coming home?”, “I haven’t got anything to take for News!”, “Do you know where my splint is?”, “Why do I have to go to school?”, “I really feel sick”, “There’s no toothpaste left”, “When can we have a lunch order?”, “I hate doing homework”, “We forgot to clean our shoes again!”, “Mummy, I really truly feel sick now”
After all that, we have the usual mad panic to get out the door and down to school before the assembly begins, deliver the bags safe to the classroom and my children safe into the hands of the teachers for the next 6 hours, often a quick stop in at the office, then I get to begin my ‘real’ work for the day.
Given an all-too brief period of time before the afternoon school run, I manage to do a casual job, run an online support group, check the secretarial details of just one of the committees I’m on, try to catch up with people I’ve been neglecting, try to pay bills I can ignore no more, run to the shops (being creative with the family meals on an artist’s budget), glance again at the online certificate course I’ve signed up for (and estimate just how many assignments I can squeeze in before the final deadline), run another load of washing through the front loader and dryer, attempt to fold and put away the stuff that’s done, unload then repack the dishwasher, empty the garbage bins, sort the recycling, check the mail, clean up after the kids, clean up after the dog, clean up after the husband, clean up after myself!
Once the kids are collected it’s empty the school bags, identify or simply throw out uneaten foodstuffs left in lunchboxes, assist with any assessment tasks, ensure the uniforms actually make it into the laundry and school shoes are somewhere they can be found the next day, provide afternoon tea, referee any arguments along the way, do the artistic hunter-gatherer thing in time for tea, bathe the kids, repack the dishwasher, feed the dog and put him out for the night, read with the kids, turn off any unused appliances, lock up the house, all while keeping the children quiet while daddy gets some sleep.
And once the other half and offspring are finally quiet at the end of the day, I find time to reflect on an old piece of advice a lady once gave me - count your kids, and if you still have the same number you started out with, congratulate yourself!
Then I try to manage some sleep before it all begins again.
Yep, if that aforementioned 'whoever' had to walk a mile in my shoes, I am sure that before too long they would take off at a run - in the opposite direction!
Jx
©2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)