Please don’t judge me but I have, on occasion, put my bag on the floor in a public loo. This is only ever when the hook on the back of the door is broken though. I am not a complete scuzz bucket. I often shout at my kids. Once they got chocolate Kimberly’s and some other chocolate concoction, badly disguised as a breakfast cereal for their tea. I earned serious brownie points that time, I can reveal. The fact that the chocolate break outs happen on the days that I have roared at them is no coincidence. I don’t think I need to give a reason here, do I? Doesn’t shouting at your offspring come with the territory? I once answered that question on a parenting website. “Do you shout at your kids?” I was the first to reply with “Do you mean on an hourly or a daily basis?” and sat back waiting for the backlash. None came. It seems we are all in the same crowded boat and shouting at our kids is a regular event in most of our busy, stressful lives. Of course, (disclaimer alert), there is no excuse for raising our voices to anyone. We should all be more disciplined and strive for excellence. We might be human, people, but that doesn’t mean we cannot be perfect! Dammit!
And, shock, horror, I use the television as an unpaid babysitter sometimes. Years ago when a friend spoke about Ceebeebies, I thought it was a computer game. Now I know it is the best invention. Ever! It keeps my Screecher Creatures quiet for up to half an hour at a time so I can tidy up, put on a wash, hang out a wash, change some bed linen or even, on occasion, finish a sandwich and a cup of tea without interruption!
I know we are all supposed to look at the mess and see it as our kids creating memories, but fek that! You are more than welcome to visit our place and check out the crayoned walls any time you like. And anyway, in the television's defense, it’s a hell of a lot more educational today than it ever was when I was growing up. My kids are fluent in American-ese and even have the odd word in Spanish or whatever language it is Dora speaks. Moving on, I couldn’t tell you the first thing about a tracker mortgage. I should be the wan on the top of that bus. I now live in slight fear of Mister Husband taking it upon himself to explain it to me which, I can guarantee, will only serve to make me even more confused and none the wiser. (He knows everything!) A culinary confession now; I can’t make gravy. There is a special stick with a big nail in it, kept behind the door in my mother’s kitchen. This comes out if they see me within five feet of the cooker, even glancing in the general direction of the gravy saucepan. So easy to make. Yes? You’d think! A bit of corn flour mixed in with Bisto stuff, some meat juices and a whisk. Not for me. The only thing I end up making is lumps. So I am banned from the gravy making in my mother’s house. I don’t even try in my own! Right, now that I’ve admitted to plonking my kids down in front of the television let me divulge that I don’t watch too much of it myself. I’ve never seen an episode of Greys Anatomy. I don’t watch any of those reality shows, my guilty pleasure is Home and Away. I like the odd cookery programme and watched the last two series of Raw, but that’s it. Brace yourselves now, even though I refuse to think I am the only female of this opinion. I’m not gone on David Beckham; in fact I think he’s a bit funny looking. He’s like a Gary Barlow and a Ronan Keating hybrid. *shivers* and that voice! Enough said! Now, I wouldn’t describe myself as an advertisers dream. Not by a long shot. I’ve never bought one of those nappy bucket things, for example. Nor have I ever been tempted by that Dettol hand wash thingy where you wave your dirty paws in the vicinity of the nozzle and it squirts anti-bacterial soap onto them. In fact, I do a lot of scoffing at such things. (And the people that get sucked in, it has to be said). Every once in a while though, I am tempted by a product on a shiny page. Sometimes I get it wrong and berate myself for getting bamboozled. Like this one time with a massively popular beauty product claiming that one sells every four seconds or something crazy like that. Elizabeth Arden’s notoriety is lost on me. I just don’t get that 8 hour cream. It’s mingin. Thick, greasy gloop and the smell is only slightly worse than the taste. No, I wasn’t eating it but you’re supposed to be able to use it on your lips as well. Thankfully it was a gift and I didn’t waste my hard earned cash. Incidentally I was given a rather large pot of her moisturising cream lately and my cheap and cheerful €2.99 stuff from Aldi pisses all over it, thank you very much. Ms. Arden is obviously adverse to nicely scented products. I am a big fan of Avon though. And right now, at this very moment in time, (19.08 if you want to be anal about it) Mister Husband and Screecher Creatures numbers one through to three are outside standing around a bonfire. I think they look like something from a halting site. I’m sorry; I know that is incredibly politically incorrect of me. But they do. You should see them. They are out there having the time of their lives. It is dark, I can see three little silhouette’s dancing in a cloud of sparks and one of them has a stick. Doing very important things with it, no doubt. Mister Husband is keeping guard, letting them have their fun. The time I mentioned is very important because something strange happens to me at the witching hour; I get lazy and couldn’t give a dam. If every clock in the house was broken, I would still know it was getting close to bedtime because my body starts to shut down. I have put in a 13 hour day by this stage. They will most likely come in smelling like the bonfire and need a shower. I have nothing left to give at this time of the night so unless Mister Husband takes it upon himself to do the needful, they will retire for the night stinking of smoke. (19.15) There is what sounds like a herd of elephants upstairs. They will go to bed smelling of Johnsons shampoo after all. Thanks Mister Husband. Wanna know another secret? I think he’s great! My Awesome Foursome aren’t half bad either.