I am a woman on the edge.
There has been a not very subtle change in my house recently and I am at a total loss as to the cause.
Significant other appears to have gone on strike and the catalyst for this seems to have been me cleaning the house (not that uncommon but after a month of chicken pox it was needed). He came home to our sparkly clean abode and proceeded to tell me, with no sign of humour in his voice, that if I did more on a daily basis I would never need to spend an entire day cleaning and then made various comments to imply that said cleaning had therefore led me to neglect the children.
Since this conversation there have been very few words spoken between us. However he has now, through his total inaction, made it entirely clear that he believes he has no responsibility when it comes to the maintenance of our shared home.
The second shift has come in the form of my previously sweet daughter. She has always been an incredibly polite, well-mannered little girl who took my word as law with no argument or endless repetition of ‘WHY?’. However, overnight she has become a grumpy, sullen child who argues and questions constantly while maintaining an obvious disdain for me and everything around her. Now I so very much wish this was an ironically accurate real-life portrayal of the famous Kevin and Perry sketch where the clock strikes midnight and Kevin transforms from sweet 12-year-old into surly teenager. Daughter is 5 – FIVE!!! Now please don’t misunderstand me, I adore the changes that a child goes through while they discover their personality and thirst for knowledge about the world around them. I understood that the appearance of primary school in her life would be her first chance to find her feet and so far I have enjoyed the person she is becoming but lately I find myself saying ‘are you serious?’ far too often. Her favourite time of day is when she asks me what we’re having for dinner. And she very much enjoys putting on ‘the face of hatred’ and telling me that she didn’t want chicken or pie or unicorn or whatever delightful dish I have concocted for dinner. She then proceeds to inform me that I should learn to cook something else. ” in my class has porcupine en-croute (or deep-fried mars bars, turkey twizzlers or shit on a bloody stick) – why can’t we have that?”
Well for a start, so and so in your class is either grossly overweight or on the verge of malnourishment and also, eat your bloody dinner and stop being so ungrateful. We have had the conversations about people in other countries starving because they have no food and 5-year-old daughter told me in no uncertain terms that not even they would want to eat my chicken casserole.
And finally there’s the tiny 2-year-old monster. A lovely boy when he chooses to be that can make me turn my head and chuckle in even the most dire of circumstances. Having recently had chicken pox I had foolishly hoped it wold help boost his immunity as he does love to, I assume, lick every sick child he sees in order to develop every cold, stomach bug, disease or ailment available. He has had a temperature for 4 days but no sign anywhere on, around or within his body of anything else developing. So he has spent the week standing by my the bed at midnight and breathing on my face until I wake up and see him far too close to me and automatically assume one of the horror film children has finally come to get me. He then creeps quietly back off to bed and waits until 4am to shout my name out and demand a drink and medicine. And he then likes to spend the day when unwell asking for biscuits, refusing to eat anything that isn’t biscuit shaped and throwing the biscuits I finally relent and give him back in my face after he’s licked the sugar/icing/filling off. Oh and let’s not forget the whiney voice. The one he uses even when smiling incase I have forgotten he’s not 100%.
I am tired. I am quite stressed out and apparently I am entirely alone. But only in this house – certainly not in the world as I know for absolute certainty that someone reading this feels exactly the same way. Don’t worry sister’s – we have each other, we have alcohol and we have a closable kitchen door. Use what’s at your disposal to escape in 30 second bursts (any longer and someones bound to fall off something) and try as hard as you can to maintain your sanity so we do not all become a generation of women that desperately hope someone will report them to social services so we can happily hand our children over and fuck off to spain.