Urine in my tea cup

I’m having one of those days. I’ve just sat down to drink my tea, a moment of salvation that I was hoping would give me the strength to get through the next couple of hours (or minutes at least) and what do I see? I see that a urine-soaked tea towel has been stuffed in the top of my cup.

Madhouse tiny army

We are potty training. Well we (read I for the most part) are attempting to. But today has been one of those days. One where there has not been a single sticker assigned to the potty training log (no puns please). I sigh. I was thinking we’d pretty much nailed it with the little boy one, but even his high standards of 3-dots-and-1-butterfly-sticker a day have fallen by the wayside today. I look back to my ‘tea’ and muse that there must be a joke about throwing the towel in there somewhere. But the ‘there’ involved is my brain and that’s past being able to construct jokes. So although in its deepest corners it registers there is the potential for humour, it otherwise stays still and numb. And no glimmer of a smile crosses my face. I just can’t muster enough energy. Frankly it’s the last straw and I’m now beyond laughing.

I’m also beyond cleaning up the six hundredth wee patch that is under the table (and partly on my feet). I’m also beyond cleaning the sofa for the six hundredth time to try to rid it of what is a distinct smell of bottoms. It’s ‘Mummy’s hit a wall’ time and this tea was going to be the thing to give me the extra gazumpf to break me through it. I feel like my senses have been numbed and I am running on some 20 year old petrol that someone found in the shed that no-one’s sure is still going to work. Well I can confirm that it doesn’t. I am at that stage where I am aware that I am not being the patient, fair, soft-spoken earth mother that I would like to be. Instead I am bouncing between forced earth mother softly spoken patience and severely impatient, snapping, angry I’ve-lost-my-methadone-prescription style mother that I’d really rather not be. And do you know what goes through my mind? Yes, that’s right. I’m thinking that my mood swings are going to cause my children permanent psychological damage. Now isn’t that a productive and helpful way to occupy my mind? Is there any scientific basis for me to start worrying about this? Well there might be something out there, but the reality is that I will have read something, somewhere at some point that suggested something that might have slightly been along those lines. But of course I’ve conveniently forgotten the details of the article. And therefore forgotten the bits of the article that make this fairly unlikely.

I start cursing my inability to retain information and then just in the nick of time before I beat myself up completely for being useless again I swerve. I swerve towards the light and think one very clear thought. That reading is bad for me. Well reading anything relating to being a perfect mama anyway. I am going to go back to baser methods. I am going to trust my instincts. Because when I’ve failed in the past it’s because I haven’t trusted them sufficiently. So what do my instincts tell me? They tell me to put the kettle on, give myself a pat on the back for not killing anyone today and reach for the pack of nappies.


My tea tastes shit

My tea tastes shit and I’m a bit grumpy about it. It’s my own fault – I’ve been reusing tea bags to combat the financial drain of my eBay and Etsy addictions and the result is a decidedly below-par brew. Add my inclination to forget about the blessed thing for just that little bit too long and I’m left with the ultimate in grey and tepidly crap beverages. At this stage the only option is to give it a blast in the microwave (I could make a fresh one but that would just result in the wasting of another bag which we can little afford) but then all I have is a warmer but even shittier drink. It almost pains me to drink it. But I do.

The fact that I’m grumpy isn’t all tea related. It has been one of those pissier weather days that makes you wonder why the hell you haven’t moved to Spain. And I had to drag my sorry ass out of bed super early to get the kids (in the heaviest buggy in the world, with the most annoying rain covers in the world) to the doctors for the ungodly hour of … 9:30! (OK I am well aware that that is late in most people’s books but you’d be a fool to pick me up on that right now.) Then add the fact that the small ones refused to eat the yummy egg mayonnaise sandwich that I had lovingly hand-bought from Marks & Spencer’s. Then they both embarrassingly kept trying to run out of the lovely music class we went to leaving me chasing them all over the neighbouring café area and then cried their heads off when I dared to bring them back again. Then they screamed blue murder when I tried to put them down for their lunchtime nap until I gave them a little snack (because duh, they were hungry having not eaten the blasted egg sandwich) and read them several books. And then … then I notice that the outside of the bloody annoying bastard rain covers have still got a load of stuck on tomato seeds from some long forgotten rainy lunchtime snack that the stupid bastard pissy rain hasn’t even rained off. I mean what is the point of walking all over Camden most of the morning in the rain if it doesn’t even do you the courtesy of giving the rain covers a bit of a spruce? So, my question is, would anyone like to come round and clean my rain covers? Please? I’ll try to make a u-turn and be sparkling company. And I might even make you a tea.