Rosie is poorly. Vomitting, diarrhoea. Crying. Husband greets me at 7am – what’s going on? He’s wearing my dressing gown He looks like an extra in The Rocky Horror Picture Show what’s going on? What time is it? It’s bloody Easter what’s wrong? “Rosie has been up since 2am vomiting – it’s your turn now.”
Carrying baby downstairs, it’s easy to see why he was dressed in fluffy pink. Rosie has vomited on everything. He has done two loads of washing, it’s chucking it down outside, washing hangs limply around the house – heating on full blast in an attempt to dry it. Crap. Rosie vomits all over me, all over the floor. A bit later she fills her nappy with mustard-coloured water, which leaks all over the floor. Great, we’re all going to get this, we’re all going to end up shitting ourselves.
Urgh I feel ill. Belly growling. Not right, not right. But not sick. It’s OK. “I’m taking the baby to the walk-in” It’s my husband again as I lift my heavy lids, unable to move, aching all over. He’s gone, and so am I, drifting off on the couch. Sweaty. Shivering. Where are my babies? What day is it FFS? Then he’s back, it’s a virus, nothing serious. Rosie vomits again. More washing.
Babies in bed. Later, we watch Batman because it’s “something to switch your brain off to” – I am in and out of shivering consciousness. Why does Batman have to dress like a bat? Why can’t he just save the world like a normal person? Why does no one know it’s him, and where is frigging Robin and all the BOOM! KAPOW stuff?
I feel much better. Rosie is much better because she is asking for Coco Pops and cheese. I check my bank account, I got paid yesterday and now I have zero cash. Bloody marvellous isn’t it. We’re still trying to tile and fix up our bathroom and that takes AGES because we both work so many hours. But I’m waiting on a decision on some funding for my post grad studies – if that comes off – YAY! I also have a viewer on my house in Manchester on Saturday – if that comes off YAY and goodbye financial hardship and f*ck you! – work DOES PAY!
“We regret to inform you have been unsuccessful in your application”
F*ck you then. I’ll do it the way I have always done it, the hard way. I got to the final round so there is some hope in that. I can try again for my PhD. DICKS. Alice keeps telling me that she loves me. This is strange, is she OK?
Emily wants to show me all the dances she learned at dance camp, I am trying to read about women in West Germany circa 1960, Rosie is back to normal and Warren is still tiling the bathroom. I have an essay mark due in, but it’s late and that makes me nervous anyway. Exams soon, you’re going to choke. F*ck you.
Alice is sick. Same bug, different child. She is OK. Just needs cuddles and water and Mummy and Daddy. I go to work. I check my email. I have to do something with a QPS report. What even is a QPS report and why am I even involved in this shit? My brain buzzes. F*ckssake.
Warren is tiling the bathroom. Why do all my tights have holes in? Can I afford new ones? No. I need new clothes. Tough. I need to have my hair done. Tough. Do it yourself. Email pings about this blog we’re going to the theatre in June. YAY. But I can’t get excited yet because I have no money and there is a hole in my tights and we’re going to see The Cat in the F*cking Blanket. I mean The Tiger That Came To Tea. I don’t know. Labour email me. Am I voting Labour? Probably Hell Yes. Hell Yes WTF.
How will I afford my Masters if I don't sell my house? Joanne on Facebook informs me that some women sell used tights on ebay for £8 a pair. What is this madness. I consider this. I wonder if they will like leggings with bleach on too? Is it a bit to prostitute-y for me?
Ping. Email from - work? Uni? "You are suspended from the library until further notice" Oh FFS. What have I done now?
I return my books. Then see this on the library wall in Blu-Tak. Yes, I totally f*cking win. And I didn't even do the frigging thing.
I paint my nails five different colours, follow my slimming world plan and definitely avoid wine as a consolation prize.
I still have no essay result and I need that before I can continue on to my next one. I like the feedback. Just get on with it. Why has your reading ground to a halt, you've been sat reading that Fifty Grades of Shay crap in the bath every night on your Kindle, don't talk to me about not having time to read. Rosie draws on my books. I finally undo the 2015 calendar so that we can get organised and put it on the wall. A new cake recipe every month, Oh no. I'm losing two stone. Eat an apple. You are so shit. Things are all falling down and because you juggle so much stuff when you drop one thing you drop the lot and then you feel like the biggest pile of crap to walk the earth, go on list your stupid analogies:
worthless piece of crap
used tissue (same as a rubbing rag - you can't have that one twice) You can't even come up with a decent frigging analogy you idiot.
Yay lost nearly half a stone in one week on slimming world. I see my former midwife when we take Rosie for a check-up - she says I look well, lost weight. I'm still wearing one of my dresses I wore when I was pregnant. Not only with Rosie but with Alice too. I need new clothes. I have no money. Lose two stone first then buy clothes? Will they take used tights instead of cash in Debenhams? WTF. Shut up.
Can't get into anything. No essay mark, no reading. Work part time, can't throw myself into work because I need to be back for the kids. The kids keep crying because they have a bug. I'm just jumping from one thing to the next hoping that I don't land in any shit, sometimes literally when it comes to these kids.
Ping. Email from uni. Essay mark in. YAY. You bloody did it, well done! Nearly there! Ping. Emails. Blog emails. Emily is lay on the couch. She has The Bug well at least she's not screaming that she hates me - FFS it's like living with that kid out the Omen at times. "Emily do you need anything?" She goes to bed, belly making noise.
Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, This is so shit and such a waste of time. Too much on. Who cares? Just get it done.
Warren is still tiling.
I go up for a bath and find he has left me a lovely romantic note on the wall before he puts the last tile in.
It makes me smile. The dickhead.