It’s a blooming good job I only work Monday to Wednesday.
Because by Wednesday, the house is just about standing. After only three days. The fridge is empty, the washing is overflowing and the bin is trying to draw attention to itself with a smell that can only be described as putrid. Well you can give up, Bin. There just ain’t no time to do anything but GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.
The week starts off serenely enough. And Mondays even seem to be quite organised. I have clean clothes to wear. There is milk in the fridge. Beaver is cooperative and dresses herself. Bookbags are packed and contact books read and commented on. Daddy Pig is out of the house by 7.45 AM with kids in tow and I have 20 minutes to tidy up and empty the dishwasher. We are all doing what we should be. A perfect ‘working’ family.
A mere 36 hours later and the picture is looking rather different. We get in from nursery late. Beaver decides she doesn’t want a bath and, too tired to argue, I let her have a cat’s lick. Which is the only time the cat comes in useful. Godivy is unusually fractious and irritated by everything and everyone. I am suddenly feeling lethargic. How can things unravel so quickly in such a short time?
Wednesday morning is the climatic point of implosion. Made even more laughable by the fact that Daddy Pig has to do two drop offs. Beaver to nursery. Godivy to Grandma’s. He should leave by 7.30 AM. Which is usually about the time he is getting in the shower. And Beaver is still lounging about on the sofa watching Postman Pat.
Yesterday morning we actually had a pit-stop where we both dressed Beaver in Grand Prix, tyre change fashion just to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. Daddy Pig was in charge of clothing, I was in charge of accessories. Yes, accessories. Because it doesn’t matter how late we are, when you are three there is always time to worry about which necklace and hairclips you are going to wear.
Beaver trotted out of the front door looking like some sort of exotic dancer but we were so happy to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE, we couldn’t have cared less. Godivy, meanwhile, seemed to have missed the pit-stop altogether and turned up at Grandma’s still in her pyjamas and smelling like a barnyard animal.
When Thursday morning arrives, I can breathe a sigh of relief. Sort of. And spend the next few days restoring the house to its naturally, harmonious state. Ahem.
Because before we know it, we are looking down the barrel at Monday.
When it starts all over again.