Yesterday was supposed to be about getting organised. Cleaning the house, paying bills, painting my chipped toenails …
I got sweet F.A. done.
The kids finally headed off ice skating with their dad and SSF at about 10.30am. I faffed around getting showered and dressed then ducked to the shops looking for a birthday pressie for DD, who’s another year older on Thursday.
Then I did the grocery shopping and finally pulled back into the driveway at 1.30pm. More than half the day was already over and not one bit of dust had been removed from the house.
I’m on my mettle to remove the dust because the youngest had a nasty allergic reaction to something on Friday night. I can’t for the life of me think what it was. She’s allergic to cows, horses, walnuts, pecans, hazelnuts, dust and some sort of mould.
There weren’t any cows, horses, walnuts, pecans or hazelnuts around and just the usual amount of dust and mould.
So who the hell knows.
Exactly the same thing happened a few months ago when I picked her up from gynmastics. I put it down to dusty gym mats and didn’t think to take note of all the other factors that might have contributed.
I texted my ex to see if he had any ideas, which entangled me in a web of deceit.
He asked me what the youngest had for dinner that might have set her off.
Uuuuuuum … a sausage sandwich at secret netball. Well, I couldn’t mention the secret netball bit because it’s a secret … from him. He said she was over-committed on the sporting front and had to pull out.
Her team was going to fold if she didn’t play because they wouldn’t have enough kids for a team. Hence secret netball.
So I just said “sausages” and he suggested I look at the ingredients on the package, but I couldn’t because it was a secret netball sausage.
And so the merry dance of not lying while not confessing continued for the next 20 minutes.
Anyway, we’re still none the wiser about what set her off. And it’s looking like her secret netball team might make the semi-finals.
I felt pretty guilty about the allergic reaction because I ignored the early signs – rubbing eyes, itchy hands – and bolted to the pub to have a quick drink with a friend who was visiting for 24 hours from Brissie.
I came back to hives armageddon. She was a MESS.
I threw her into an oatmeal bath and fed her a Clarityne and prepared myself for a laaaaaaate night while we waited for the swelling to go down.
Why am I telling this story? Oh, that’s right, dust.
Well, I didn’t get any dusting done because I was too busy faffing … and throwing a ball for the dog every five seconds so he wouldn’t bark and bark and bark at me. Farking dog.
I was also a bit stumped about what to blog about, since faffing and not cleaning aren’t really that interesting.
However, as I madly type hundreds of words this morning it appears that really wasn’t an issue, but anyway …
Seeking inspiration, I looked up July 31, 2011.
And I was startled by what a cranky bitch I was back then.
The youngest was sick. I was shitty.
What I really want is to hide under the doona and have a quiet sob, but it’s not really a viable option with the Sprogs about. I idly contemplate a glass of wine, but that seemed way too pathetic, so I hang in until a pre-organised playdate in the park at 2pm. I arrive, chuck the kids at one of other mums and make a beeline to the shops for a bottle of Diet Coke. By the time I return to the park swigging the last dregs I feel much improved and even manage a bit of playful hijinks with the Sprogs before retreating to the huddle of mums touting champagne. Lovely! The unfortunate downside to the playdate was that Sprog 2 arrived home and insisted that she’d relapsed. I snapped that I didn’t want tears at the dinner table and sent her to bed. I immediately felt guilty and didn’t enjoy dinner much after that. After choking down my leftover curry, I went in to comfort Sprog 2, cleaned her teeth in bed, and she was out like a light by 6.30pm. God knows what time she’ll be up in the morning. And if she wakes up sick, I am NOT staying home watching Bananas In Pyjamas again. Husband can have a “personal leave” day.
So much anger and misery and blah-ness.
It really freaks me out when I read those moments from my past.
Gawd I must have been a joy to be around.
Poor kids. Poor ex. Poor me.
I am so glad those dog days are over.
Song of the day: Florence and the Machine “Dog days are over”