The shit has started hitting the fan. I've seen it coming, helplessly, for 8 months. There has been nothing I can do to prepare for the badly timed next 53 days in which I examine a load of centres, team lead a bunch of examiners, write a whole school-worth of reports, stage the school play and do my research enquiry for the MA. F-U-C-K-E-D.
I'm a week in and I've already started dropping balls. The right balls, luckily. I'm confident that every GCSE candidate I have examined so far has achieved the correct mark, my examiners are performing competently and my boss is happy. However, ask me to a kids' party in Hatfield last Saturday and I will most definitely take my over-excited-soon-to-be-very-disappointed children to a non-party in Harpenden. It's fine. I'm aware it happens to normal mortals; it just normally doesn't happen to me. It would have been slightly less painful if (a) it hadn't been our next-door neighbour's party so there could be no hiding in shame for a while and (b) I hadn't, (and I kid you not), given my family a lecture in the car on the way to Harpenden about how lucky they were to have a Mummy as well organised as me. Oops. Testament to Poor Stu that he only threw that back in my face once when we realised my error. I would have been on at him about that for days.
On the subject of Poor Stu, he is, so far, coping admirably. He has realised that 'shut up completely' is probably the safest path to take and is doing stirling work with my neglected boys. I know I'm a bad wife at the moment; I've said before that it is the first thing to slip and I'm lucky he puts up with it. I was waxing lyrical as such to another Reception Mum at swimming the other day and she put my mind at rest by saying: "Don't worry, people don't normally rush into divorce, I'm sure you've got a couple of months in hand to sort it out." Amazing. At least we're all as cynically-minded as each other! I had a window tonight between preparing for tomorrow's exam and emptying the dishwasher so I decided to proposition my husband with a shag.
"Do you want sex then?" I growled, ungraciously from the corner of the sofa. He declined, more graciously, on the grounds of not having digested his dinner quite yet. This prompted an attack of unjustified malice reminding him of how lucky he was to be offered anything at all and it could quite likely be 2025 before he happened to get his end away again. Poor Stu.
It's the first time I've drunk any alcohol since Saturday. That doesn't happen very often. I hate to admit it but I have definitely been (shock) more efficient and alert this week without being at all hungover. I'm doing odd things like waking up before my alarm goes off and being able to function before a cup of tea in the morning. It is definitely the way forward career-wise but it really is quite boring. I can't quite decide where I want to be: there is the almost-alcoholic Mum that wants a clean house and well-fed kids being pestered by the high-flying career woman.
The boys' birthdays are looming in the next couple of months too. I wrote out Sebi's invites last night and badgered Stu to give them to his teacher this morning. The first text reply I got this afternoon however, nearly prompted me to answer: "What on earth are you talking about?" Luckily, I engaged my Mummy brain before I pressed send. If you're not giving it teenage-angst on a stage at the moment then you don't seem to enter my stratosphere.
Roll on July. The kids will have a mother that does more than baby-wipe spilt milk off their school-uniforms before bed. My parents will have a daughter that speaks to them about something other than child-care. My friends will have a two-way conversation once more. My husband will have some semblance of pleasantries and companionship...(no really!) and then I will get bored and the whole ridiculous cycle will start again.
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