It’s Friday. This is usually a day of joy for me. It’s the one day of the week where I get to be in my own house, on my own and get a shit load of whatever the fudge I like done. Mostly I work but sometimes work can bore off and instead I head to the supermarket and buy a big bar of Dairy Milk, a bag of fizzy strawberry laces and Grazia. Judge away. I don’t care. Friday is my day…but not this Friday. Not today.
Today I am dragging myself through life on about 43.2 minutes sleep, which isn’t enough in anyone’s book. The rest of the night was spent contorting on a spare cot-bed mattress on the Small’s bedroom floor trying to catching projectile vomit (to varying degrees of success) in a mixing bowl. This was necessary mostly because we’d run out of clean sheets; she would be sleeping in any errant puke from that point on. As it was, I only dropped a vom-spot the size of a Weetabix which, with some flannel scrubbing and a blast with the hairdryer at 3.47am was pretty much unnoticeable (once you got over the stench).
As a result of this, nursery refused to take her – although willingly accepted my money. Funny huh? She was, of course, by this time, fully recovered and wolfing down three pieces of toast a poached egg. I found myself almost willing her to puke it up. Giving up my much treasured day of peace and productivity felt like less of a punch in the face if she was actually, really, physically emitting germs and bacteria but no. She was fine. Her breakfast remained submerged in her chubby toddler tummy. Damn it.
By this point, just like all good tragedies, I was starting to see my own demise with clarity. Not only was I riddled with a headache caused by lack of sleep but my stomach was starting to make treacherous sounds. By this point my poorly toddler was bouncing up and down on the sofa clutching a couple of drumsticks and instructing me to dance while she sang, “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.” I sidestepped her requests by sharting.
Guantanamo Bay had nothing on my house this morning.
And now it’s 4.30pm. I’ve spent most of the day in the bathroom. She’s on her sixth hour of television approximately (you decide whether I’m rounding that up for comedic effect or rounding it down to try and underplay my terrible parenting). We’ve watched Madagascar, Frozen and about 23 episodes of Peter Rabbit. She’s upside down on the sofa with her hands stuffed all the way down her nappy and the only bit of fresh air we’ve had was a quick walk to the store to get some paracetamol. It’s worth noting I totally forgot the paracetamol and returned with a tub of marinated anchovies, a bag of fizzy strawberry laces, some chocolate chip Weetabix, a Frozen magazine, some Maltesers, a packet of Prawn Cocktail crisps and Kit-Kats.
You don’t need to tell me: I’m making terrible, terrible life choices today.
I’m assured that tomorrow is another day and with any luck, that day shall be less about shitting and vomitting. Instead, I’m hoping there’ll be more sleep, less sugary self-medication and absolutely no television at all (ahem).
Either way, only another 3 hours to go.