“I quit my job as Mummy” I calmly announce to Pickle, my five year old.
It all started last night when Roo, my seven year old coeliac returned from Brownies with a chocolate that I had no idea whether she could eat or not.
“Can I eat this Mummy?”
It’s 7.45pm, past bedtime in my books, and my daughter has been given a chocolate.
All I want to say is “go to bed”, instead, feeling upset that she has been given something with no information regarding allergy status, I start to google said product.
Why is it when you need information fast everything conspires against you? The tablet slowly opens a page upon which I am faced with a flash plugin (doesn’t work with my tablet) and a huge number of choices of products…not one of them matching the one in my hand.
Reluctantly I suggest she has a couple of matchmakers instead…just to get the bedtime process underway.
It annoys me. Why did she come home from Brownies with something (that it turns out after a lot of research) she cannot eat? There are plenty of chocolates she can eat, as she points out to me after asking the same question.
I am sure people like making my life more difficult!
My despair continues into the morning…
At 7.30 in the morning I don’t like being ‘spied’ on by two strange children, who’s new favourite activity is arriving in the kitchen ‘diguised’ as aliens whilst dancing around singing strange songs!
My every move is jotted down in a notebook whilst I sneakily try to peak at my emails, Facebook, Twitter…anything that might give me some hope that my life is about to change for the better.
Pickle turns up in the kitchen. This time not in diguise.
“Mummy, ‘and’ and ‘the’ are conjunctions” he announces.
What am I going to do in a few years time when this new curriculum introduces A-level information that is way beyond my understanding?
OK I have a degree in biochemistry and genetics, but my english and maths don’t stretch to that level!
I nip off to the toilet hoping nobody has noticed.
Two seconds later I hear it.
I keep quiet hoping I won’t be found.
No such luck. In bursts Pickle to tell me he can do something (I have no idea what) himself.
I congratulate him and wish he would disappear.
As a way of getting him to disappear I suggest he gets dressed.
A minute later he reappears.
“The shirt in my room was dirty, so I got another one out the cupboard.”
Trying not to raise my voice I inform him that his shirt was actually clean. Well as clean as a white shirt gets when it has been subjected to the level of abuse it receives day in day out at a school whose teachers obviously think that aprons are a waste of time.
I tell him to put his jumper on (read: hide the stains on this shirt) and brush his teeth .
He returns – again – this time with a huge blob of toothpaste on his jumper.
With a deep breath and a hand signal (by this time I am in the middle of cleaning my teeth) I urge him to leave it alone. I quickly spit out the contents of my mouth and turn around.
Too late. He has rubbed the toothpaste into his jumper…
Just add it to the pile of washing and all the other cr**y jobs I have to do!
At last it is 8.40, time to
get rid of the kids take the children to school.
I call upstairs for Roo.
“I’m just going to the loo” is the reply.
Could things get any better? Pickle and I look at each other. We both know what that means; we’ll be leaving in about 10 minutes.
At this point I mutter those words “I quit my job as Mummy.”
To which Pickle walks back in the living room to watch tele. Even a dramatic statement gets no response!
It just proves my point. I don’t want this job anymore. I don’t get paid for it and it is just too darn testing!
I need a new job!
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