I want my hour back. Waking up on mothers day to find it’s an hour shorter before it even begins is a bag of dicks.
I resorted to talking dirty to sleep last night trying to flirt it into bed with me before I started making soap and committing social terrorism.
So far I woke up only to have the sleeping three year old next to me randomly sleep yell right down my lughole and kick me. His charm only continued when he woke up looked at me and farted with an accompanying announcement, paused…. Then squeezed two more out with announcements for them too.
In an alter reality I wouldn’t have to cook today but the alternative would be beans on toast from hubz and I’m hungry. HUNGRY. For something yummy.
There’s a million channels on the tv yet nothing I want to watch. Obviously my net book still hates me. I feel like I’m wasting my lie in. I’m still coughing and blowing out crap. I’m not sure how much longer my pelvic floor can survive. I don’t want to be in nappies.
I spied a suspicious lack of bacon in the fridge. I think hubz is trying to make me cry.
The kids tackled me to give me some beautiful home made cards. The seven year old gave me a bonus one she made at school yet judging by what she wrote in it I’m thinking we may need to have the drug talk sooner rather than later…