Last Thursday I had the whole day off.
I was considering just staying in bed, in my jammies, or getting some gift shopping done and doing the packing and mailing (I would probably have to get dressed for that). I considered all this from under the covers, with the pillow over my head, pretending to be asleep.
I play possum on Thursday, because it's really my only full day off, and so I have decided it's easier for The Daddy to properly feel his responsibility of getting the kids off to school, and getting himself to work on time, if I just stay out of the way, and ignore the pleas of "can you find my socks?' "I need more jam on my toast" "I can't find my music book, Daddy said to ask you". Sometimes I fake snore, just to press my point.
My Mr. normally won't let anyone stay home from school or work, unless they have lost a limb that morning, or have barfed up a lung. Thursday, he decided to let The Boy stay home because he apparently has a headache (didn't do all his homework, was going be late for school, and of course Mummee is home to look after him) it's now 10:30, The Daddy has a late start, and both Boy and Daddy have been salting my day-off holiday-type vibe by Bogarting the TV playing Mario, and generally getting under foot.
There's no room in the lounge, I have to eat my breaky sitting on a stack of dirty laundry in the kitchen. My cup of tea balanced on my knee, I am mumbling obscenities under my breath as I am perched on the washing. I am not a happy camper.
11am, and The Daddy has finally toddled off to work, leaving the lounge, kitchen, bathroom and balcony totally destroyed. The washing up has overflowed, and he has used every cup, plate and bowl in the place.
The Boy (his headache miraculously gone) is already complaining that he is bored. He keeps asking when lunch is (@.@) About half an hour later, his magically restored health is really getting on my nerves. I say it's too early for lunch, you just had breakfast. He says Mario makes him hungry, and he flounces off to make his own lunch (using the only clean pot, and he had to put himself inside the cupboards bodily to retrieve it).
While he bangs around in the kitchen, exclaiming over the mess, and trying his very best to make it worse, I am waiting for something I ordered through the post. Thought I heard the Bastard Extra Postman (not the regular one, but the stupid guy who is afraid of anything written in English, so he jams it in our tiny post box, because he is too scared to come and knock on the frikken door).
It's raining ( it usually is on my day off. Boy swears I have magical rain making abilities) and I don't want my packages to get wet. I make the choice to leave the house. I go downstairs in pyjama pants and a T-shirt, no bra. Note to self: do not do this again. Even though my packages were saved a horrible soggy fate, Extra Postman believes that your boobs are the window to your soul.
I was considering just staying in bed, in my jammies, or getting some gift shopping done and doing the packing and mailing (I would probably have to get dressed for that). I considered all this from under the covers, with the pillow over my head, pretending to be asleep.
I play possum on Thursday, because it's really my only full day off, and so I have decided it's easier for The Daddy to properly feel his responsibility of getting the kids off to school, and getting himself to work on time, if I just stay out of the way, and ignore the pleas of "can you find my socks?' "I need more jam on my toast" "I can't find my music book, Daddy said to ask you". Sometimes I fake snore, just to press my point.
My Mr. normally won't let anyone stay home from school or work, unless they have lost a limb that morning, or have barfed up a lung. Thursday, he decided to let The Boy stay home because he apparently has a headache (didn't do all his homework, was going be late for school, and of course Mummee is home to look after him) it's now 10:30, The Daddy has a late start, and both Boy and Daddy have been salting my day-off holiday-type vibe by Bogarting the TV playing Mario, and generally getting under foot.
There's no room in the lounge, I have to eat my breaky sitting on a stack of dirty laundry in the kitchen. My cup of tea balanced on my knee, I am mumbling obscenities under my breath as I am perched on the washing. I am not a happy camper.
11am, and The Daddy has finally toddled off to work, leaving the lounge, kitchen, bathroom and balcony totally destroyed. The washing up has overflowed, and he has used every cup, plate and bowl in the place.
The Boy (his headache miraculously gone) is already complaining that he is bored. He keeps asking when lunch is (@.@) About half an hour later, his magically restored health is really getting on my nerves. I say it's too early for lunch, you just had breakfast. He says Mario makes him hungry, and he flounces off to make his own lunch (using the only clean pot, and he had to put himself inside the cupboards bodily to retrieve it).
While he bangs around in the kitchen, exclaiming over the mess, and trying his very best to make it worse, I am waiting for something I ordered through the post. Thought I heard the Bastard Extra Postman (not the regular one, but the stupid guy who is afraid of anything written in English, so he jams it in our tiny post box, because he is too scared to come and knock on the frikken door).
It's raining ( it usually is on my day off. Boy swears I have magical rain making abilities) and I don't want my packages to get wet. I make the choice to leave the house. I go downstairs in pyjama pants and a T-shirt, no bra. Note to self: do not do this again. Even though my packages were saved a horrible soggy fate, Extra Postman believes that your boobs are the window to your soul.
At least now he'll be more willing to come to the door! Even if it's just to hand you the junk mail. ;-)
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