So, it's Mother's Day. An occasion that is squared in our house, containing as it does not one, but two mums - one for the maths nerds out there.
Actually, I stopped maths in Year 10 and have trouble to this day with any numerical transaction more complicated than single digit addition. I can roughly get my head around working out 10% of something, but anything more complicated and the "bbeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep" coming from my flatlining brain will be publicly audible. So much so that I am embarrassed to say I actually had to Google the definition of squared before I posted it on my Facebook status.
Sad, people, but sadly true. Plus you know what those Facebook types can be like, all superior and knowledgey about tricky maths terms...they would shoot a greenhorn like me down in flames before you could say polynomial multiplication.
Anyway, I wasn't going to blog today...I didn't want to get all morbid and morose-militant and whine about how I wish I was pregnant already.
You know me, that is assumed knowledge - but let's not dwell on it. Life needs to be lived in the meantime, right?
But I just this minute made myself the most obscenely large cup of English Breakfast and whenever I do that, I feel a compulsion to do one of two things immediately: sit on the couch and inhale Honey Jumbles while watching The Amazing Race, or blog.
Thank you Mr Twinings for inspring me to lead such an eventful life.
Plus three things have happened already this morning that make you realise Mother's Day really is a day solely enjoyed by the people who make those dodgy breakfast trays
(because no one has one at home all year round, so they go to Crazy Clark's to get one just for Mother's Day - because the "family" on the Target ad has a breakfast tray, it's what white Australia is meant to be doing on that second Sunday in May. It costs $3.95, it's made in China from an ethically-questionable wood plantation, it breaks under the weight of the burnt toast or the pancakes, mum gets scalded with hot coffee and dad swears he will make one out of real wood from Bunnings next year. Next year comes around and, what a surprise, dad has forgotten his promise; so he grits his teeth, tries to push the bitter-tasting feelings of inadequacy out of his mind, bundles all the kids into the Ford Territory and goes to check on Clark's mental health. Again.) or the people who make Roses chocolates. Yep, three things already have made me mutter "Mother's Day Shmother's Day" under my breath.
Let me preface this by saying toilet-training is not fun and we have probably done it wrong: we started too early and we have relied on pull-ups and nappies too much.
That, coupled with a little boy who last night came down with a head cold, has resulted in me coming into extremely close personal physical contact with poo, snot and wee before the clock had struck 10am. These revolting bodily fluids have been on my person - on my person! - this morning. What am I? An aged care nurse working the winter diarrhoea shift?
I mean, COME ON!!!!!!!!!!!
Look I wasn't expecting flowers, burnt offerings on a wonky breakfast tray or one of those cute homemade cards that look worse than the roast chook bag - and yet you throw the roast chook bag in the bin without a moment's hesitation.
No, I understand Jay is just over two. But he is a smart kid. Really. He should have picked up on the fact that this was a day specially set aside for his mummies.
Instead, he recreated Christo's wrapping of, oh I don't know, the Olgas by pooing in his jocks.
Instead, he blew out about four kilos of yellow snot (in an alarmingly long string) and potentially some of his brain thanks to a Force 5 sneeze.
And instead, he weed on me while he sat on my lap after I had changed him into fresh, clean jocks Mark 2 and fresh, clean pants Mark 2.
Mother's Day. The joke's on us, mums, but we ain't laughing.
Anyway, I should be packing for my trip. Aaarrgghhh. So long!