The Nothing That I Do

So the day prior to Mother’s Day, our annual celebration of mothers an all that we do, The Groom and I had a “heated discussion” regarding what, if anything, I actually DO all day. The poor pet drives to work and back each day, suffering through countless meetings, luncheons and time spent on the computer. I don’t know how he does it, but bless him, he just keeps on trucking so that we can continue living in the manner to which we have become accustomed. He has recently become interested, nay, suspicious, about how it is that I have come to know what goes on in television shows such as Young & The Restless, The Real Housewives of New York and various other distracting programs that provide blessed relief from the drudge as I dare to sit while shoveling food into my mouth.

At the conclusion of our “discussion”, The Groom requested that I provide minute by minute accounts of my day, and suggested that I spend the day at his place of employ while he undertook domestic duties. After spending the most miserable mothers day EVER home in our second living area flicking through 900 television stations from dawn until dusk, Monday was finally upon us. He left the homestead to knuckle down to his work, leaving me to dither about doing, well, nothing, allegedly.

After burning my throat on scalding hot coffee and swallowing whole two pieces of toast, I made the 7 year old’s lunch for his school day. Cracking the whip that gets him dressed in his uniform, fed, teeth brushed, bag packed, readers marked off, I load the three darlings into the car and hoon off to school, getting him there on time. I return home thereafter, surveying the post-mother’s day “I am not doing one stitch of housework today” disaster that awaits. Where to begin? I decide to tackle the linen cupboard, so that I can fit the towels, doona covers, sheets, towels etc that belong in there, in there. I take out the napkins and put them on the kitchen table, awaiting my attention for the next task. Linen cupboard complete, I get to the hutch. As part of my Year of the De clutter, and have determined that we shall reduce ourselves to only one single junk draw in the house, rather than seven that we currently have. I am 3/4 of the way through this transition. The next phase, Operation Hutch Draw, is upon me.

I take out both draws, removing an unfathomable amount of what can only be described as crap. Old birthday cards, receipts, drawing pins, instruction manual for a chainsaw, badge making kit, batteries (flat?working?whothefuckknows), bits of stuff, and things. I reallocate a small amount of these items to their rightful homes, throw most of it in the bin and marvel at how much space I know have. One draw is not home to the aforementioned cloth napkins & place mats, the other houses envelopes, pens, batteries (in a snazzy battery storage container that really has to be viewed to be fully appreciated – thanks Howard’s Storage World, how I love thee).

I sense that it may now be a good time to shower, after catching a whiff of what can only be described as “something yucky” coming from my person. I get the baby a bottle of milk, feed it to her while watching 7 minutes of television, and put her into her cot. She screams, thrashes, throws her dummy and stands up, suggesting that perhaps she does not wish to comply. I really want that shower, however, so I force the dummy back into her resistant mouth. She then lays down and immediately closes her eyes, as though she had just been waiting for me to do this the whole time. I resist the urge to pull her hair.

I tell the 5 year old that I will be in the shower, and to keep up the non-baby end of the house as said baby is asleep. I get into the shower, wash all relevant bits, and then set about Enjoing the Shower. I’d like to report that I get a certain thrill as I scrub down tile and grout, the micro fibre revealing whiteness where there had moments ago been orange grunge. But I don’t. The 5 year old enters, expressing his utter boredom. He then sets up camp in the bathroom, watching me as I finish the cleaning phase, alight from the shower, and dry off. I dress while fielding questions pertaining to the difference between menstrual pads and nappies, and set about cleaning the basins and bench. It is then that the 5 year old leaves the room momentarily for god knows what. Upon his return, he thunders up the hallway, waking the baby and shattering any illusion that I had pertaining to doing anything else in peace and unencumbered.

In the meantime I have loaded the dryer and washing machine with loads and fielded countless questions from the 5 year old, and had my leg taken hostage by the 16 month old, who clings to it like a cute but unwelcome tumour. Having completed a task, I note that it is lunch time. The 5 year old asks me to do some craft with him, and in my attempt to avoid more motherguilt at neglecting his needs, I pull out the beedos from the craft cupboard. We sort colours, and off we go. We both forgot how annoying beedos are, the small balls REFUSING to stay in place and fucking up the design that we have worked tirelessly to emulate. Both of us make comment on our feelings of irritation, and plow on. I end up finishing the project for him, and he gets to spray the lot with water, which is all he really wanted to do in the first place.

I make the 5 year old a sandwich and defrost some minestrone soup brimming with vegetables for the baby. He eats his, she all but instructs me to go practice procreating. She shits me. I clean up the kitchen, including the beaters, bowls etc that made my Mother’s Day gift, two self saucing puddings, one chocolate, one sticky date with butterscotch sauce. The irony is not lost.

Kitchen gleaming, I get myself some lunch and scoff it down while sitting on the couch watching  a 10 minute snippet of Young & The Restless. The offspring clamber all over me during this time, attempting to get my food, pat my head, fleece me of the remote and ask me to bake some biscuits. Having completed the eating lunch portion of my day, I place my bowl in sink, and decide to give myself a full hour lunch break so that I can blog about my happy day doing Nothing. I am now off to attempt to feed the baby her lunch again, as she is whining and chewing on a Mr Men book while crawling around with a photo of her 5 year old brother. A multi-tasker already, bless.

I feel SO RESTED, I may just go and skip through the yard in search of any outdoor chores that may require attention…if not for the beds that need making, lounge that needs a good tidy, clothes that need ironing…

1 thought on “The Nothing That I Do”

  1. Hi Mel, I hope you don't mind that I made Kate give me your blog address! We were talking about husbands on the weekend, and she told me that you'd written this… it's so funny (as in, the way you've written it, not the fact your husband thinks you do nothing!). Love your writing :)I think you should take him up on that job swap – imagine a day sitting in his office sipping on coffee and having lunch without someone demanding you share it?!

    Like

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