Happy Anniversary

04 Oct 2011 8 Comments

by Tamsinin Bedraggled Mum Tags: , , , , , ,

I have come to the conclusion that the School Run is not suited to a wedding anniversary. This is why…

7am: BLEEP BLEEP BLEEEP. The Husband’s built-in iPhone alarm wakes me up from a deep snore sleep. I realise I am still sick. I go back to sleep.

7:30am: Meep Meep Meep, WOOF. Meep Meep Meep WOOF. Squidge’s Animagic puppies (she got these for her birthday) are eeping at each other while she manages her doggy zoo on her bed. I place pillow over head. At this point the fact that it is a) our anniversary and b) my morning shift has not been remembered.

7:45am: “Mooooooommmeeeeee” The adorable voice howls, I mean, calls at me from the bottom of the stairs. I smell coffee. I rise, like a zombie (seriously, if you saw The Hair you would totally think I had been dragged out of a grave backwards) and head for the smell.

7:47 am: “Happy Anniversary darling,” says The Husband, looking annoyingly perky and talking to me before I have caffeine. I can get off on a technicality for that. He hands me a lovely card with blood on it, “Look,” he says, “I bled for you.” Suddenly a lightbulb goes off in my head. OH. My. Holy. Knickers. I have his card, but I haven’t written in it. I have his present, but it hasn’t arrived yet. I have his gift voucher, but I didn’t print it.

8am: I have shut the lounge door and am frantically writing in The Husband’s card. I pause for a moment to praise myself for its amusing joke involving the Kama Sutra. All the cards I buy him are rude. It’s important. I am also juggling a child who is not interested in remaining in the same room. She is like a cat. If the door is shut she has to go through it. I am trying to print Amazon voucher at the same time but screen faces kitchen and the door has glass panels so is blindingly obvious I have not prepared his present. The Husband is being rather sweet about pretending not to notice his Crap Wife.

8:01am: Fastest card writing and printing in the West. Duly handed over and I’m making French Toast for breakfast. We got some Manuka honey yesterday and, along with the Olbas oil tissues, the cough mixture, the Beechams, the honey and lemon tea, the rooibos tea and the echinacea it has been added to my “eff off you effing cold” armoury.

8:05am: Am frantically juggling hot spitty pan, temper is frazzling as coffee machine on a go slow and STILL no caffeine, and child has come into kitchen for the fourth time to argue about getting ready for school. “Mom, how am I supposed to get ready if I don’t have any school clothes to wear?” she asks. I snap. I pick her up and carry her into her room, dump her on floor, yank shirt, knickers, socks, and pinafore out of cupboard (all of which are in plain sight) while yelling (not REALLY yelling), “It is all here so stop coming up with excuses. WHY we have to go through this EVERY morning when *blah blah blah*”

8:15am: Sulky child sitting at table with French Toast. Husband glaring at Sulky Wife who knows she should not have gotten cross but is refusing to back down in spite of having now had some coffee. The Husband is also grumpy about being undermined by aforementioned wife when he weighed into Getting Dressed Argument. The Husband is tad sulky too. I attempt to lighten mood by going, “Ooooh, look, Manuka Honey!” The Husband responds with, “Bet it is just a marketing scam.” Child responds with, “It tastes funny! I don’t want it! Ack! Ack! It makes my throat burn.” I try to drown self in coffee mug.

8:25am: Child sits like angel while I brush her hair. She is, stubbornly, refusing to offer hugs and to make friends. She is a master manipulator and knows how to push her mother’s buttons. I am so pathetic.

8:30am: The Husband hurtles downstairs screaming, “TIME TO GO!!! We are late!!!” He insists Squidge goes as she is, sock-free, as she was told ages ago to get ready. He relents as he walks out the door, half carrying her and half putting her socks on. Silence reigns over the house.

8:55am: Email: Dear Husband, thank you for my lovely anniversary present. I love you. Not sure we should have our anniversary on a weekday anymore.

Reply: Well, quite.