Episode 2-76 – Stamped 

I met with my key worker this afternoon which still felt like morning to me having dragged myself out of the bed at ten forty five, three and a half hours after my alarm went off. In fairness, I didn’t sleep much last night: I have a resurgent pattern of having little trouble getting to sleep and then waking up at two or three am and not getting back to sleep till six or seven by which time the village is waking, the sun is coming up, the dogs need a wee and ElsaDaughter needs to get ready for school and, as she is even less of a morning person than me, it’s usually best if I can feed her and generally steer her in the direction of the right room to shower, dress, make lunch or else we could have a cereal bowl full of shampoo kind of situation going on. 

This morning, I was too pissed off and caught between foggy exhaustion and irritable loathing for insomnia to get up with her. She wasn’t keen on going into school and I was an impatient bitch to her. Must try harder at this parenting thing. She just got her mock results too and she is disappointed with her English and French results, which are my subjects. Oh dear. Epic fail as a mother and teacher. I give grinds in these subjects but I’ve never really helped her with them. Again, room for improvement. 

I did manage to cook a decent dinner last night of baked potatoes with tuna and sweet corn and a salad. Salad dressings are so full of crap and usually are terribly vinegary sand expensive so I made my own consisting of Greek yoghurt, balsamic vinegar and salt and pepper. I spooned it over baby spinach leaves, cherry tomatoes, orange segments, red grapes, cucumber and yellow pepper. I’m one of those cooks who throws anything remotely salad like into a salad and anything remotely fruity into a smoothie so that sometimes my smoothies are just liquified versions of last night’s side order. 

I don’t understand and frankly I have zero sympathy for parents or individuals who say they can’t afford the time or money to cook anything other than convenience foods for themselves and their families. I certainly couldn’t afford fish and chips and frozen pizzas every night. 

Listen to me, high and mighty. I thought I sounded a bit conceited and superior in Playschool today too. There were only six of us and there were a few very quiet attendees so I felt the need to fill the silence and answer all our facilitator’s questions with my own interpretations and practices. Then I met my key worker privately after and the way I was going on about how much I have under control… or at least how much better I’m getting at staying on top of things. Like I’m his star student. I certainly didn’t feel on top of things on Monday when I couldn’t stay awake or yesterday when I was Princess Bitchface in the flesh: having a meltdown over our drippy shower, the clutter zone that is my bedroom, the fact the bins weren’t picked up by the unbelievably inefficient Greyhound Recycling (recycling excuses is all they’re good for). Then of course, I picked up my beta blockers from the pharmacy: ten euro which is a dinner for us, and dropped them, unwittingly, on the street outside our flat. When I went to look for them I had a feeling they’d slipped from my hands before I got home so I looked out the door and there they were, crushed beyond all recognition to a betablockingdust, noningestible (I doubt that’s a real word) to human. So I had to go back to the pharmacy and explain that my prescription got run over by an SUV. I bet it was a yummy mummy. Those bitches do this shit on purpose. 

But in the end, I fed my child and didn’t murder her or offer the dogs for free to strangers on the street. Hell, I even made it to the gym where I watched episode one of House of Cards season three. Do not watch a series such as this with twists and turns, shocks and shames in a public place where nobody else is in on the action. A certain scene involving a naked Doug (is he the Banquo to Frank and Lady Claire Macbeth?) and a shower sent a ripple of non resistance training gasps through a relatively empty late night gym and suddenly I’m the crazy lady on the treadmill, you know, the one with the dogs. 

I want to have a enjoyably productive day today. I want to get through my list. Not “I have to” or “I should” but “I would like to”. 

Then I can be suitably smug about how together I’ve got my shit all over again tomorrow. 

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