Some days are better than others. And as I made the long journey between my bedroom door and my bed tonight, realising it’s “teenager-messy” for the first time since I moved in and unpacked everything (and by “I” I mean my Mum, of course), I also realised today was not one of those better days.
With Mum in and out of Hospital with her revolting eyes and swollen, painful face (yes, viral conjunctivitis and cellulitis are a sexy mix) it’s fallen to me to take over her role as “Mother” for the last two days. Essentially, I really don’t mind. My Mum has been so utterly supportive of me (particularly this year, when I’ve needed her more than ever) that I’ll do anything to repay her and make sure she has the time to get better quickly (well, the sooner she recovers, the sooner she can be Mummy again, eh!?). Unfortunately, the kids, the Dog and the whole sodding Universe don’t agree. Great, thanks Universe, love you too (!).
I’m pretty obsessed with alarms at the moment (I’ve always had an OCD about time, so I guess it’s a natural progression… No?) so when I set one for my Mother last night to make sure she got to her Hospital appointment on time, I also had to set one of my own to make sure that I got up on time… To make sure that her alarm went off… To make sure that she got up on time (see, perfectly logical and rational thought process, for a neurotic).
So, all was well and everyone in the household was up and about by 8.45am. On a Saturday. This is where the Mardy-arse, “I bloody hate everything that has ever existed in the world”, “get me a coffee before I hurt someone” attitude began, I think. Yes. It’s a Saturday. It’s 8.45am. All I have to look forward to today is a day of housework, X Factor and maybe some YouTube surfing before flicking through the last night, sex-filled, pointless channels and surrendering to my bed; and I’m up as early as 8.45am to do it? Hmm… Wonderful (!).
I wouldn’t have minded if my seven year old sister hadn’t have greeted me with a lollipop in her mouth and the words “you like Barbie Island Princess, don’t you? I’ll put it on just for you” and then refused to have a healthy breakfast (are Coco Pops healthier than a lollipop?) because “Mummy said I’m allowed whatever I want”. My urge to shout back “well, I’m 17 years older than you so I’m old enough to be your Mum” didn’t quite seem appropriate. This time.
Just imagine… I’ve crawled downstairs at 8.45am on a miserable Saturday morning, seen my Mum off to the hospital, I’ve got some obnoxious and over stimulating, badly computer-animated children’s film blasting out at me at 1000 decibels and I’m being told by a disobedient seven year old, young enough to be my own daughter, that my word has no place against my Mother’s. Then… Then the Dog makes an appearance and I immediately feel a bubble of sick try and force it’s way up my gullet (!). Sorry, “SADIE! OFF!”, but you know you’re not exactly my best friend. Mind you, that’s probably why she does the things she does (you laugh now, but I’ll soon prove her and the Aliens *are* conspiring against me, you wait!).
To be fair, because my legs, back, bum, pelvis and anything from the waist down have been rendered almost completely useless by disabled pregnancy (mm… Fun!), the Dog hadn’t been for a walk in two days. However, in my Mardy-arse, “hurt-everything” state of mind, this did not justify the fact that I spent the entire of my Saturday doing the following, just because of the sister or the Dog, and mostly due to a combination of both:
A) telling my sister not to wind the Dog up
B) shouting at my sister not to wind the Dog up
C) telling the Dog not to hump my sister
D) shouting at the Dog not to hump my sister because she’s been winding the Dog up
E) dragging the Dog out into the garden because she’s been trying to destroy everything in the house that is mine and smells like me
F) dragging the Dog in from the garden because she’s been destroying everything out there that smells like my sister, the one who winds her up and who she wants to hump all the time, and crying and barking and whinging to come in
My favourite moment of the day? I got out of the shower and my phone was ringing. It was my Mum’s best friend calling to talk about my Mum. My bedroom door was wide open, I was stark naked, phone in one hand, pants in the other, Elsie (my sister) came running up the stairs: “the postman needs you to sign something”… Instant neuro-meltdown.
Moral of the story? Avoid kids and pets. Correction. Avoid my sister and our wonderful, loving Dog (!).