I haven't written for a few days as I've been in a rather strange mood. On paper (or rather over the internet) strange moods can often translate into something far more sinister than is intended. However lovely the thought of 'being sectioned' might seem sometimes (lie-ins, making paper doilies in a common room, medicated strolls through gardens followed by long periods of inactivity in a quiet, white room...with more medication...) it's not a very convenient time to lose the plot as it were. So i'm going to have to continue to 'hold it together' until such time as I can deal with all the overflow taking up valuable brain space.
As you may have gathered from my less-than-cheery tone, the hospital appointment for my mouth went as expected (ie. I was not miraculously cured of condition, i still need surgery, and furthermore was told, "No Natasha, sedation is not an option as we only give it to children". Lovely. To add insult to injury (who was it who said that to be reliant on cliches in writing is to be sadly devoid of creative thought?...or did I just make that up?...brilliant if I did, demonstrative of former point if I didn't) it appears as though I have in the past few days gotten 'lost in the system' and have been accidentally discharged from the NHS before even undertaking the procedure. (At least this is what a bored sounding 'Kiandra' on hospital reception informed me when I rang up - interrupting my distraught protestations to bid good-bye to a colleague before confirming that yes, I had indeed been accidentally discharged.)_
I suppose I shouldn't worry though as Kiandra has promised to try and remember to call the relevant department first thing on Monday morning and get me reinstated in the emergency operations queue...assuming she has a shift on Monday that is. So you see there is no need to worry about the raging infection deep in my gums, which could at any moment potentially become a threat by poisoning my bloodstream, thereby ending my life a wee bit sooner than was originally intended. Nope. Kiandra's on it so everything's fine.
This week has been terribly busy. As per usual, most of it has NOT been spent creatively fashioning works of genius (be that brilliant writing, new music, or 'throwing together' incredible looks from the expensive avalanche that is my clothes cupboard). No...instead I have had mop and broom semi-permanently molded to my un-manicured hands, chasing after three messy males who appear to have absolutely no regard for the fact that I am developing both 'dish pan' hands and a bad temper.
We had an estate agent scheduled to visit our home the other day to give us an estimate on rental income should we decide to 'tune in and drop out' of society later this year (ie. drag our lazy, self-indulgent selves to Goa for a creative sabbatical which will hopefully precipitate the production of great works of art from the husband and I and NOT turn us into permanent beach bums, causing a permanent aversion to steady employment and proving a fatal financial handicap).
I had been cleaning like a whirling dervish for three hours, and literally three minutes before the doorbell rang, Dumpie took his full bowl of disintegrated Shreddies and milk and naughtily called out, "Mamaaaa" to make sure I was watching as he tipped the entire sodding mess onto the newly mopped floor. C'est la vie.
This week also saw my firstborn experience social embarrassment on such a scale as to engender several big fat crocodile tears. We rolled up to school yesterday and saw a playground littered with rejects from a 'Benetton' ad. Yep, it was a 'non-uniform' day that we apparently not privy to. Unlike other non-uniform days, whereby there are always a smattering of children whose parents are too vague/self-obsessed/retarded to remember and thereby cause their children to weather out the day in the customary blue, grey and white - this time there was not A ONE who was not dressed in civilian clothes aside from little Egg. Not a one.
Anxiously I started quizzing nearby parents and was told that it had been a last-minute decision passed on from school to parents via the children. Ummm, is it just me or is it a wee bit irresponsible to entrust a four year old to pass on information like that when in all probability, the thought of an ice lolly or a hastily-arranged playdate in the park might take precedence in his already preoccupied young mind?
Of course I had to race back home, grab some clothes for him, then race back to the school, sweating profusely and mumbling apologies to both the class assistant and my despondent son, then go and meet some of the class mother's for a pre-arranged coffee morning at a local cafe wherein I had to spend the first ten minutes or so explaining to the table that I was not a negligent, lame mother - merely an uninformed one (sigh).
All's well that ends well I suppose (what harm another cliche eh?) and Egg is off school for two whole weeks now. Sadly, little Egg has also been rendered immobile by a flu bug and was up most of last night vomiting, moaning and feverish. He is claiming his brain 'hurts' and I feel like saying, "I totally get that Egg. Mine hurts a lot of the time too".
Like a typical male, the advent of a minor virus has brought about enough outward misery and sympathy inducing groans, that you might mistakenly assume he is on his deathbed. Moreover, he is under the impression that he has to let me know via thrice-hourly updates just how poorly he is feeling on a scale of one to ten and what the current likelihood is that he shall again 'throw-up' in the next few minutes.
Between Dumpie who has already this morning shouted gleefully, "Look Mama...Wee-weeeeee" as he stood legs apart, nappie-less but pajama-bottomed in front of the dishwasher and emptied his full bladder of the contents of about a litre and a half of apple juice, and Eggie who has initiated the newly scrubbed toilets by decorating them in 'throw-up' - this isn't looking like one of the best weeks on record.
If I know what's good for me I'll take advantage of the fact that all three boys are currently lying prone in various rooms around the house, and hightail it out of here with my current read ("The Believers' by Zoe Heller) and find a cafe...any cafe...to rest my weary bones and even wearier mind.
If I don't, there is a broom and mop with my name on it staring insolently at me from across the other side of the kitchen, and I just know that if I look down I shall see legs in desperate need a waxing so....I'm outta here.