Thursday, 9 August 2007

I Will Survive

There is a level of abuse that comes with this child-rearing lark. On a daily basis i get slapped in the face, hair pulled out in alarming clumps, poked in the eye, bitten (nipples or otherwise), defecated on, pee'ed on, burped on, tooted on, and screamed at. In addition to this I am required to adhere to a stringent schedule of food preparation, toy participation and general unhooking of maternity bra at whatever time is deemed desirable (ie. 24/7).

My body is not my own, my time is not my own, and my tempting pile of fashion magazines sit forlornly and neglected on the dining room table - teasing me with new fall fashions that I'll not get to view, let alone purchase or even wear. Much of the time I feel like a bouncer in a rather dodgy nightclub. I am forever breaking up fights and potential fights between the current reigning champ 'Egg' and his up and coming rival, the soon to be nine month old 'Dumpie'. Unlike a few months ago, Dumps is now asserting himself and can often be found slapping Egg upside the head, pulling his hair, or shrieking in his ear loud enough to wake the dead, in a effort to procure some toy or another for his own. Egg will of course (with much plaintive pleading on my behalf) put up with this behaviour for about, say, 5 minutes, before turning around and shoving him to the floor or yelling abuse in his face.

Sometimes my current state is more like being a rather unimpressive hill which the two of them climb over, abuse, and litter atop of. At night I retire to my ultra-comfortable bed and sink down in exhaustion, wondering how I'm going to make it through the next day...and the next...and the....nevermind.

I realise that it could be worse, but in my current state I'm not so sure how. Tomorrow is Friday and there is a small chance that I shall be in a slightly better mood given the fact that Friday is generally followed by two days of assisted childcare. Only this weekend I'm hatching up a plan whereby I race out the flat, text Jay that i've gone and tell him that his children are locked in the front room and need sorting out. I'm serious. I really am planning a ditch mission. Damn it I deserve it. (And so do all you other haggard, exhausted, weary women out there.) RUN LIKE THE WIND. I dare you.

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