The day started badly. Youngest son; Rex - the King of the household woke me up at 2 minutes before my alarm was due to go off. At the moment "I need a wee" and "I did a wee in my bed" sound more or less the same so I race downstairs to check on the bed. It is damp. Fortunately the duvet is safe and I didn't actually need to get up straight away this morning. As I spent the hours between 2am and 3am persuading Rex that it was night time I think I might doze for another 45 minutes. Rex has to come with me, I try to put him in Pip's bed without waking her. He starts to scream. Before whole household is woken I threaten him with the garden if he makes a noise and sneak him into my bed.
I say "my bed". During the six week break, I got used to thinking of it as "my bed" as Depressed Aggressive and Neurotic husband played computer games and watched films until 5 o clock in the morning then fell asleep on the sofa. Every night. So I had almost forgotten that I needed to inform anyone or ask permission when I carry smallest child into our room.
Rex is not inclined to sleep anymore. "It's morning" he announces and then snuggles into his Daddy's back to get him to turn around and kiss him.
And so all hell breaks loose. 06:45 is apparently the time at which Dan's alarm is set. Anytime before that is not acceptable. He has to get to school and run a department. "So do I..." I venture quietly, which is a mistake. His department's bigger than my department. His school is rougher than my school. His head is much more unreasonable and power hungry than my head. Rex and I run downstairs and I get breakfast for everyone, make lunches, empty the dishwasher, discover it has broken, handwash everything, empty the washing machine and put another wash in before the economy seven time runs out, dress the toddler, make coffee, and then, as I am just about to run upstairs to drink coffee while I straighten my hair I am summoned unceremoniously to the top floor.
I am once again in disgrace. "Where is my shirt?"
"Which shirt?"
"Any shirt!"
"In the ironing pile?" I venture. This is the wrong answer, and two minutes later, still in my pyjamas with fluffy hair, I am ironing three shirts. It looks like I am now going to start ironing twice a week.
I wonder how it gets this way for me and many other women. For me I think it started with maternity leave - it may have been early but I struggle to remember my life before then. On maternity leave it suddenly makes sense, we were both working full time, now I am at home. Then eventually I am back, but only part time. So it falls to me to vacuum, to cook dinner, to iron, to wash, to load the dishwasher.
Even when we both reduced our timetables to 80%, I still took the lion's share. I was not the one with responsibility. Or not the right kind of responsibility.
And then it's too late... I cannot simply rejoin my career, may as well have another baby. And until biology changes I can't see an easy way out.
Friday 20 September 2013
Thursday 12 September 2013
Numquam dormienti maritus titillare
It is 01:43. I was going to have an early night and go to bed at 23:15. Then I realised I still had a year 11 lesson to plan. It took a while. Then I remembered that Precociously Intelligent Princess; Pip; has a party on Sunday and I have no present. I have no money, no credit on any credit card, so I am limited to shopping at Next or Argos as I have store cards that I have not yet exhausted. It's only a matter of time.
Shopping proved impossible, it could be the late hour but either I or the website has had enough and I decide to go to bed. I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and left the room, turning the lights off as I did.
The light switch didn't work. No, not now, it's late. I want to go to bed. I don't want to continue spending £200 a month on our fuel bill. I try it again, just to be sure. It definitely doesn't work. In a desperate act, I look around the kitchen as if expecting another light switch about whose existence I had forgotten to appear. No such thing happens.
In a completely irrational move I then stand at the light switch and repeatedly turn it off and on again as if it will "catch" or suddenly work. Nothing.
I am close to tears and no closer to going to bed. I start to lean towards the cupboard and wonder how many fuses I would have to turn off before finding the correct one and what else would also disconnect.
There is only one thing left to do, and it is usually the first solution I turn to. Wake up Dan.
Dan has been asleep on the sofa now for seven hours on and off, and the last thing he muttered as I told him that I was going upstairs was that he might do that too, but now he is snoring loudly, his head thrown back in an attitude of total abandon.
I know better than this. I could leave him to sleep and let him discover it for himself when he wakes up and staggers upstairs at 3am. The swearing would probably wake me up, but at least then it would be only the light switch and the universe's fault and not mine.
I think better of it and shake him gently awake. Not too awake, just awake enough for him to remember that I have woken him in the morning when |I remind him of it.
"I'm going to bed. Andthelightwon'tswitchoff night."
I run up to bed, and hide under the covers.
The next morning the light is off in the kitchen. I am too scared to switch it back on. I dare to remind Dan of what happened the previous night.
"How did you turn the light off?"
"....I switched the switch."
I spend the rest of the day in the dark.
Shopping proved impossible, it could be the late hour but either I or the website has had enough and I decide to go to bed. I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen and left the room, turning the lights off as I did.
The light switch didn't work. No, not now, it's late. I want to go to bed. I don't want to continue spending £200 a month on our fuel bill. I try it again, just to be sure. It definitely doesn't work. In a desperate act, I look around the kitchen as if expecting another light switch about whose existence I had forgotten to appear. No such thing happens.
In a completely irrational move I then stand at the light switch and repeatedly turn it off and on again as if it will "catch" or suddenly work. Nothing.
I am close to tears and no closer to going to bed. I start to lean towards the cupboard and wonder how many fuses I would have to turn off before finding the correct one and what else would also disconnect.
There is only one thing left to do, and it is usually the first solution I turn to. Wake up Dan.
Dan has been asleep on the sofa now for seven hours on and off, and the last thing he muttered as I told him that I was going upstairs was that he might do that too, but now he is snoring loudly, his head thrown back in an attitude of total abandon.
I know better than this. I could leave him to sleep and let him discover it for himself when he wakes up and staggers upstairs at 3am. The swearing would probably wake me up, but at least then it would be only the light switch and the universe's fault and not mine.
I think better of it and shake him gently awake. Not too awake, just awake enough for him to remember that I have woken him in the morning when |I remind him of it.
"I'm going to bed. Andthelightwon'tswitchoff night."
I run up to bed, and hide under the covers.
The next morning the light is off in the kitchen. I am too scared to switch it back on. I dare to remind Dan of what happened the previous night.
"How did you turn the light off?"
"....I switched the switch."
I spend the rest of the day in the dark.
Tuesday 10 September 2013
What's so bad about political correctness?
Clearly, the Trust must be replaced – though not, God forbid, by that nest of politically correct Blairites, Ofcom
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-2416410/DAILY-MAIL-COMMENT-Good-work-dont-crow-Mr-Osborne.html#ixzz2eTtEap8i
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook
I love the BBC. I'm supposed to be ashamed of this I know, but I can't help it. Recent amazingly good US drama may have made me much more relaxed about the future of quality programming, but websites like http://www.the-specials.com/ remind you that not every group of people is represented fairly in the British media and I like the idea that there exists a trust with a commitment to "embrace diversity" http://www.bbc.co.uk/commissioning/tv/pitching-ideas/how-it-works.shtml that we all contribute towards. And I believe it's good value for money. Channel 4 is great too and I wonder how many of us would actively seek out some of their more unusual offerings if they were on some obscure specialist channel rather than a general, all-purpose broadcaster.
I also know I am supposed to hate Tony Blair, but I still cannot forget that weird excitement in the air the morning after Labour deposed the Conservative government and the sinking feeling I felt after the last election. I suppose we should be grateful that the Daily Mail website has a "Femail" section especially for us women. Today it's telling me about Miranda Kerr(who?) covering up after her last fashion faux pas and Natalie Portman drawing attention away from her husband who was supposed to be getting attention. In its defence it is also equally critical of Jude Law for going bald. (How dare he?)
At the moment then I'll stick with Ofcom and even the BBC.
Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-2416410/DAILY-MAIL-COMMENT-Good-work-dont-crow-Mr-Osborne.html#ixzz2eTtEap8i
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook
I love the BBC. I'm supposed to be ashamed of this I know, but I can't help it. Recent amazingly good US drama may have made me much more relaxed about the future of quality programming, but websites like http://www.the-specials.com/ remind you that not every group of people is represented fairly in the British media and I like the idea that there exists a trust with a commitment to "embrace diversity" http://www.bbc.co.uk/commissioning/tv/pitching-ideas/how-it-works.shtml that we all contribute towards. And I believe it's good value for money. Channel 4 is great too and I wonder how many of us would actively seek out some of their more unusual offerings if they were on some obscure specialist channel rather than a general, all-purpose broadcaster.
I also know I am supposed to hate Tony Blair, but I still cannot forget that weird excitement in the air the morning after Labour deposed the Conservative government and the sinking feeling I felt after the last election. I suppose we should be grateful that the Daily Mail website has a "Femail" section especially for us women. Today it's telling me about Miranda Kerr(who?) covering up after her last fashion faux pas and Natalie Portman drawing attention away from her husband who was supposed to be getting attention. In its defence it is also equally critical of Jude Law for going bald. (How dare he?)
At the moment then I'll stick with Ofcom and even the BBC.
Saturday 7 September 2013
Week 1 - The gentle introduction
Husband Dan (Depressed Anxious Neurotic) is barely speaking to me. This is not unusual, given his state of mind and there are extenuating circumstances. I do appear to have systematically trashed the already untidy house in the course of the last six weeks, we have no money and no means of getting any for another month and we go back to work in a matter of days.
Once again I wonder how I have spent the last few weeks. I don't appear to have been working which will explain the absolute panic and anxiety dreams which have started already. If it had been the start of a half term break I would have thrilled and excited but as we only had 1/6th of our time left it makes it almost impossible to enjoy the last week.
Mildly Autistic and Exasperating Son (Max) has become increasingly unsettled and is shouting at me for asking him to do unreasonable tasks (such as load the dishwasher and pick up his clothes) interspersed with bursting into tears of remorse.
I am, actually, making increasingly unreasonable demands on my children. I keep expecting them to be able to answer questions like; "What is the matter with you?" and "Why did I put you on the stairs?" I am dreading going to back to work and equally thrilled that when I am at work I am entitled to 4 periods of PPA a week. That sort of time is not incorporated into a week on holiday. At home I do not have any access to planning, or preparation time. When I suggest that I go into school for half a day to prepare, Dan is extremely unwilling to lose his final catch up time with series 4 of "Dexter". His willingness to support me fully in my career does not extend as far as actual, practical help.
Once again I wonder how I have spent the last few weeks. I don't appear to have been working which will explain the absolute panic and anxiety dreams which have started already. If it had been the start of a half term break I would have thrilled and excited but as we only had 1/6th of our time left it makes it almost impossible to enjoy the last week.
Mildly Autistic and Exasperating Son (Max) has become increasingly unsettled and is shouting at me for asking him to do unreasonable tasks (such as load the dishwasher and pick up his clothes) interspersed with bursting into tears of remorse.
I am, actually, making increasingly unreasonable demands on my children. I keep expecting them to be able to answer questions like; "What is the matter with you?" and "Why did I put you on the stairs?" I am dreading going to back to work and equally thrilled that when I am at work I am entitled to 4 periods of PPA a week. That sort of time is not incorporated into a week on holiday. At home I do not have any access to planning, or preparation time. When I suggest that I go into school for half a day to prepare, Dan is extremely unwilling to lose his final catch up time with series 4 of "Dexter". His willingness to support me fully in my career does not extend as far as actual, practical help.
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