Just a typical Saturday morning in the DH household: get up and creep to the loo – the only time of day I’m ever in the bathroom alone. Enjoy the solitude for a good ten minutes. Deliberate over whether to flush the loo and risk waking up the small people – then decide it won’t be fair to anyone if I don’t.
Tiptoe back to bed, trying to not think, blink, breathe or move more than I have to, in the hope that I will go back to sleep. Get carefully into bed, head under the pillow (as is my way) – to have the same pillow unceremoniously yanked off my head by my husband, who is trying to be ‘playful’. I swear at him, retrieve the pillow, and try to drift off again.
My husband – being the funny guy he is – proceeds to poke me, tap my face, and pull the cover off my feet. All things that he knows wind me up. His version is that he’s play fighting. My version is that he’s pissed off that he has to go to work and doesn’t want me to have a lie-in.
I swear at him some more. He continues to be a knob-head. I finally ‘lose my shit’, as I so eloquently put it this morning (I’m so gansta), and get my revenge. There is much dead-arming, bending back of fingers and face-smacking (he’s not the only one who can be childish).
I put my head back under my pillow…then realise I haven’t checked my bank balance yet today (nope – still no generous payments from a mystery beneficiary). Whilst I’m on my phone, I may as well check Facebook. Oh look, cute animal videos! And it’s someone’s birthday – must send them well wishes. And I’ll just Google to see if there are any more houses for sale in our area, since, well, two days ago.
Right. Back to the issue at hand. A lie-in. Get comfy, close my eyes…to have them shoot back open in terror as there’s an almighty bang, which turns out to be J launching himself off his cabin bed again. Why use steps if you don’t have to, right? We can always build a new wall when he finally comes crashing through it. His delicate entrance then prompts the other two to wake up and explode into our room too, amid demands of what we’re doing today, what they want for breakfast and, obviously, much name calling and falling out.
My husband turns his attention to them, kindly getting them all wound up and excitable before he finally leaves for work, with instructions to put out the recycling and to empty the washing machine. After a quick cuddle, I order the boys out of the room to ‘give me half an hour’ (a pipe-dream, as I am about to find out) and to go and let the dogs out for a wee.
Cue a cacophony of barking as the dogs are released into the back garden. I’m then assaulted by three canine companions as they bound enthusiastically into the bedroom and onto the bed, with much tail-wagging and doggy breath. As per, the boys have left the stair gate open and the dogs have joined the conspiracy against mummy’s lie-in.
As per, I yell for one of the boys to come and get the dogs (we are plus one this weekend as we are dog-sitting for friends) and to close the stair gate. There is a blissful thirty seconds of silence…before Hozier, Justin Bieber and Bruno Mars begin blasting out of J’s rooms.
I deep-breathe, insert ear-plugs, remember a platitude I’ve just seen on Facebook about being grateful for what we have, and try to drift back into the land of nod. The door crashes open once more to admit Z, who is telling tales on M. M is in hot pursuit, desperate to give his version of events. Unbeknown to both of them, I really don’t give a shit what they’re arguing about, I just want them to leave me alone.
I make semi-sympathetic noises, and order them back out of the room. The door opens once more – Josh has brought me a brew. I’m very grateful – until I taste it and realise he’s put honey in it. In coffee. I don’t take sugar. I certainly don’t take honey. He tells me he was experimenting. I tell him thank you, but coffee really need no experimentation – it tastes fine as it is. It’s been an established form of caffeine for quite a while now.
I lie still, listening to the screaming, barking, loud music, and even louder television. I give up. I go downstairs. I make a normal coffee. I sweep up the half jar of coffee that J has spilled on the floor, with a dustpan that has a huge hole in it. I don’t even ask. I put the washing in the machine and turn it on. I obviously wasn’t specific enough for my husband. I asked him to empty the washing machine. I didn’t say to put in the load that was waiting or to turn it on. That would take initiative. My bad.
Welcome to my Groundhog Saturday (with a few variations). Hope you enjoy yours x