Well, now I’ve got an audience I’ve gone a bit shy. All I can say is THANK YOU for reading and if I get performance anxiety for a bit please stick with me.
One of the most rubbish things about being a Stay At Home Mother is the housework. I hate housework. I don’t necessarily think it’s beneath me, I just really hate doing it. Trulove (my partner, who has just told me he would prefer the pseudonym ‘fucknozzle’ but whom I’m not going to indulge on that one) doesn’t really expect me to do it, knowing me as he does, but there exists that eternal nagging guilty feeling. Also it’s embarrassing when you have visitors and the toilet is smeared with the remnants of Ziggler’s latest accident. Housework is BORING. And it is never, ever finished.
Housework is bad enough, but the really drudgy, dreary, never ending task is the thankless treadmill of providing sustenance for two small children. Pickle is what they call a good eater so while you would think she’d fill herself up nicely on the various bit of detritus she finds to stick in her mouth throughout the day, if she doesn’t eat punctually her usually sunny self is possessed by a small ball of squalling rage. Being quite greedy myself, I sympathise. Ziggler has reached the stage where eating – or not eating – is a whole amazing new method of controlling the simpering dishrags who are her parents, so you have to be super-casual about meal times. If she detects the slightest note of your desire that she eat something, that’s it. Her mouth is clamped shut and nothing is going in. This is frustrating and wasteful if you’ve just spent an hour preparing nutritionally balanced morsels for her delectation so I have stopped doing that and she mostly eats ketchup.
So here’s a typical day food-wise. Breakfast. Pickle is self-feeding and likes to demonstrate the ways in which Weetabix should be used as industrial fixative. Seriously, why isn’t it? Or, in fact, is it? Anyway, wash up breakfast.
Mid morning snack, which if we’re at home consists of rice cakes with cream cheese on and squash served IN THE PINK CUP MUMMY and if we’re out is probably an old box of raisins and a crumbled breadstick I’ve fished out of the bottom of my bag.
Lunch, which is served half an hour after mid-morning snack and will mostly end up on the, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, by now quite foetid carpet. Sweep up. Wash up lunch.
Back into the kitchen for mid afternoon snack. Clear up. Scrape banana off baby.
Back into the kitchen once again for ‘tea’ as far as I’m concerned and ‘supper’ at the weekends when Trulove might be making it. Clear up/wash up tea.
Once the children are in bed, it is again to the kitchen to lovingly prepare a delicious evening repast, shared with a glass of wine and a twinkly conversation over the candle-lit table. Sort of.
Punctuate this throughout the day with a two-year-old’s demands for juice in variously coloured, lidded and handled cups (I naively imagined that if I made it a rule to let her choose the colour of her tableware she would be more receptive to eating what I wanted her to. All I can say now is, aha ha ha.), and having to boil the kettle every ten minutes for Pickle’s bottles, and I am heartily sick of the kitchen and everything in it by the end of the day.
And then, in the morning it all starts all over again.