I’ve spoken enough about how busy my day is. Not saying it’s more or less busy that anyone else's, just y’know, I’m busy. I do lots of stuff. Stuff like wiping snotty noses. Wiping little bums. Chasing up socks. Scraping dried snot off doors.
Changing toilet rolls, bed linen, my mind and theirs when they say they want chocolate sandwiches for dinner. That’s always a no.
You’d think they’d know by now.
Chocolate sandwiches are for tea!
I also cook.
I used to cook up a storm.
When my sister secured for us, a house in Dublin, I cooked a homemade version of the Chinese meal she liked most, in thanks.
I once cooked an Indian meal for a dinner party. From scratch.
I used to cook lamb tagine on a regular basis. Browning the meat and everything before I “popped” the casserole dish in the oven.
These days my repertoire includes stew. (Bleugh) Spag Bol. (So sick of!!) Chicken curry. (Borrring!) Pancakes. (Sick making) Drop scones. (Sick making) and waffles (puke fest).
Because my kids like them and I know they will eat them.
I also do laundry.
I hang out the washed laundry. I take in the dry laundry. I take the dry laundry from the hot press and fold it.
I never iron.
There. Are. Not. Enough. Hours. In. The. Day.
I put the folded laundry into the boys separate drawers.
I put more laundry into the hot press.
When Mister Husband comes in for his lunch and I have a severe case of verbal diarrhea because I am desperate for adult conversation, I fear this is what he thinks I have been up to all morning.
I have been known to clean out the car. Our kids think the car is the rubbish bin.
I walk around the garden with a plastic seaside shovel and shovel up dog poo. Sometimes I remove a solid lump of dog dirt from the fingers of our 18 month old.
I have dropped everything and raced, like my pants were on fire, out the door, through the garden and out the front gate. To snatch up the same 18 month old who was on the road.
I do school runs.
I change nappies.
I make the lunches.
I attend parent teacher meetings. Bring them to doctor’s appointments. Dentist appointments. Play dates. Parties.
But once Mister Husband came home and caught me doing this.
In my defense I was 6 months pregnant.
Sometimes I wash my hair by standing in the shower and hanging my head upside down. Washing only my hair and not my body.
I eat the boys’ leftovers on the days I don’t make enough and they are hungrier than usual.
I do homework.
I do baths time. Story time. Their time. Never my time.
I break up fights. I wipe tears.
And we’re back at the wiping of little bottoms again. When there are four of them, I average a shitty bum every couple of hours.
I haven’t mentioned grocery shopping. Or swimming lessons. Or gym club. Or getting up in the middle of the night to the one who complains their willy hurts. Yes. This happens. Once there was blood.
Whose foot hurts. Who needs a drink. Who has had a bad dream. A toilet visit.
When the duvet falls off the bed.
The, thankfully, few and far between nights when they are sick. Proper, vomit sick.
The breakfasts. The lunches. The water bottles. The endless questions.
In between all of that, I snatch whatever minutes I can to sit at the computer and put down a thought or two.
And grab the odd cup of coffee with some giant chocolate button/s.
I wait till they are all in bed and asleep to use the bathroom.
It’s a busy life.
Mister Husband has a busy life too. After he helps me with the boys in the morning, and I do the school run, sometimes I meet him afterwards for a coffee.
Then he heads into his office where he does stuff.
Stuff that keeps the roof over our heads, the cars under our asses, clothes on our backs and food in our bellies.
I don’t know how he manages it because I know for a fact he goes into that office to do this.