This last week has been busy. As it always is with the run up to Christmas. It was the week that...
Fia unable to sleep at all, ran a high fever and didn't move off the sofa for days, my Mother-in-law was in the ICU with pancreatitis, and Esme sang nativity songs at full volume, on repeat.
I decided NOT to send Christmas cards for the first time ever, and then began to feel guilty as the first few fell through the front door. Traditions are like habits; hard to break.
Although I broke with some art that's been in situ for three years in the dining room - and was blatantly shamed into painting the walls as a consequence. I'm pleased to report, the girl did good. I'm not so pleased to report that Simon now wants me to do the hall, stairs and landing. Rod, back.
We enjoyed birthday celebrations with friends. We chose the Christmas tree, and had fun dressing it; bringing out the decs the children have made throughout the Christmas years that have passed. We created more to keep. We linked and hung paper chains. We had our first log fire of the Winter. We played carols on the piano, and Twister. We drank mulled wine. We iced gingerbread men - who of course morphed into gingerbread monsters.
I pulled out all the stops and managed to make cakes for the school Christmas fayre. Get me. Not just that, I even helped on Santa's grotto. (Far more stressful than one assumes). Sadly, I have only one thing to say about this particular afternoon: One of the PTA had their head so far up their own arse it was impossible to see her smile or to hear her say thank you for any assistance she had received.
And a further moot point along the lines of crapping on one...
I'm still struggling to come to terms with the fact that one morning last week, before I was even out of bed, Esme appeared in our room with her PJ bottoms around her ankles, and her backside in my face, claiming she had too much poo to clean. I surmised the loo roll she was also shoving in my face, meant she needed help. Without thinking clearly and without sending her back to the bathroom to try again, it turns out that along with too much poo to clean, I also had the issue of not enough paper to clean it with. I think I may have realised this sooner, had I not just become conscious and only opened one eye?
Need I say that beginning the day with a 6YO's faeces on my hand, was not the best start. Nor was it great when Fia yelled at me, glared at me and generally pulled me apart the same morning. Or when fabulously, Esme declared I was breaking her heart by giving her sister more love than her, explaining that she had been made to feel as if 'she wasn't part of this family anymore, Mummy.' I give thanks yet again for the joyous fact that my 6YO is so in touch with her feelings, and so eloquently able to express herself.
And generally, I give thanks for the life we have. Our Life As It Is. Even if at times, I was more than aware, that like a lot of us at this frenetic time of year, I had been dealt a bit of a shit hand this week.
