So I have come to the conclusion that my life might not be exactly glamorous enough to be made into a Reality Television series. I started suspecting this as I began thumb typing this entry up on the steps waiting for group therapy to begin and am now fully convinced of the fact as I now finish thumbing this up on the toilet… as I do a poo.
If my life was made into a TV show it’d view something like this:
One of the twins waking up crying at around 6 am. It’s the youngest one. Let’s not pretend I don’t know which one it is and that they both do it. The baby of the family does not love sleep. My husband looking at me sleepily says how exhausted he is and then me attempting to kick him the heck out of my bed because I’ve been up all night with one of the twins (yes, the baby of the family again) and I’m exhausted. No sexy lingerie, not even the conflict of a swearing match because I’m to zombified to do much but grunt angrily and flail a foot at the husband’s tail.
Husband gets up, does not pick up crying twin (yes, John you’re the one who was crying) and sits on the toilet for an hour.
I manage to pry my eyes open and stumble out of bed, collect babies in arms, hear the toddler monkey calling for love, duck into her room, she jumps on my back and I carry all three children into the lounge room.
I change the twins’ nappies. The Monkey asks where Daddy is. I say the toilet. The Monkey tells me how much Daddy loves the toilet. I agree. I start day dreaming about going to the toilet on my own during the day. It is magical. Perhaps they could do one of those foggy transitions and then some beautiful rose coloured lighting as they focus on me sitting on the can. Ah, that hit the right spot.
I get the boys bottles ready (yep they’re 9 months and now bottle fed, I guess that could cause some controversy. People could come and have a breast in at my front door and I could douse them with cows milk or formula) whilst getting the Monkey a cup of milk at her desired temperature. She asks for cake for breakfast. I say no.
The Husband gets off the loo and tells everyone about the quality of his poo and the effectiveness of his scissor bone.
I give the boys their bottle, the Husband makes the Monkey some toast. They eat toast whilst the Monkey describes how the world works. If you get blue and gold paint and mix them then you get green paint but if you mix blue and gold glitter you just get blue and gold glitter mixed together. True.
One of the twins vomits all over himself, his brother and me. His brother laughs. John you are lucky your brother has a good sense of humour. Ugh. I put dripping wet boys onto playmat, strip them of their vomit drenched wondersuits, then slowly make my dripping way to the laundry to dump my clothes in the laundry. The Monkey has at some point escaped from breakfast land and finds me and yells, “Mummy is nudie.” The husband wanders over and raises his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. A few weeks later when I complain he never tells me I’m pretty he will say, “What about the time in the laundry.” Yep, romance is going strong in our household.
Husband jumps in the shower. I swallow my bitterness and go off into a fantasy land where I get to have showers too. Bring on another transition and some funky lighting but this time using a shower model because me in the shower is so rare there is no file footage to use. I smell like a mouldy arse.
I hear what sounds like a flock of squarking seagulls coming from the lounge room. I enter the lounge room still naked, you’re welcome nosey neighbours, to discover that the Monkey has left her toast on the ground and the boys have fallen upon it. One twin has a whole piece in his mouth and the other is beating a slice against the ground to ensure it is dead before he eats it. What can I say, I have little cave babies.
Now I’d write more about my exciting day but it’s 11pm, I’m tired and I want to go to bed. I won’t sleep mind you, my stupid mind won’t stop talking to itself but you have to make an effort.
I will assure anyone who read the caption on my pic that group therapy is not interesting. It is not like it is depicted in Fight Club or Anger Management. Nobody has come home and slept nude with me, nor have they hugged me to their bitch tits, but I’ve already complained about the lack of pizzazz in group therapy – https://riedstrap.wordpress.com/2014/05/05/confessions-of-a-mad-mooer-ive-just-had-an-oprah-moment/ so I won’t rant about it again. It’s not the participants fault, there’s at least one other person there who I know would be just as keen to whip out a whole bag of crazy as much as I am. It’s the therapists really that keep us from reaching our full Hollywood potential.
But I digress. I shall rewrite my day suitable for a blockbuster movie next time I get a good length of time on the toilet… alone!
As always if you’re a lady and a bit crae crae you are welcome to join my group
Now I must go wake my husband in order to tell him all about my poo girth, texture, buoyancy and colour, because that shit is important.