My son stares open mouthed at the work surface where a dozen different types of crisps wait to be eaten.
"Happy Crispmas Mummy!" he says with delight.
That's right, its a festival about crisps. It's not about the joys of giving and receiving - or the birth of christ. It's about flavoured starch products.
To put it bluntly, this year, Christmas was shit. It's taken me until a week into January to have the energy to even consider putting it into words. Usually my Christmases have minimal family strife. It's a little stressful preparing for it, but we aren't the kind of family who like to have a row after the presents are opened and too much schnapps has been consumed. This year I just spent too many hours in the company of sickly relatives. It was a wash out and one which I don't wish to repeat.
My best gift (one which I kind of bought myself) is my beautiful new laptop. Shiny and wireless and sans sticky fingers (pause to kiss exquisite new keyboard).
New Year was kind of cute - which surprised me, as I stayed at home with Bushman and the pickneys. He brought me a cocktail in the bath and we ate Duck pancakes. The TV died at around 10.30 when our electric seemed to dip. We had no TV for a further 4 days and it was kind of nice. We had conversations instead - well what constitutes conversations in our house. Ok, so perhaps I mean sex.
I have been making up for a shit Christmas by having as much sex as one can possibly have with two kids in the house. Still not pregnant though - now whose a clever girl then?
Of course now the remnants of the Christmas food have almost disappeared its time to get back to the diet. A nasty bout of flu shortly before Christmas saw me lose a few pounds only to put them back on again over the season. Today I bought the Daily Mail and handed the dirty rag straight over to Bushman after removing the Weightwatchers supplement. I also purchased a Guardian for its 'Fit for Free' supplement. I have got to shift these pounds and as cheaply as possible. Cue for more sex maybe?
A few days ago Cupcake phoned me to tell me that she had almost been reduced to tears by a picture of her looking incredibly hot some years ago. A few hours later, whilst transferring files to my new computer I was reduced to tears as I came across pictures of me also looking unbelievably hot. So hot, that I wanted to have sex with myself. That picture was only taken five years ago. Bushman looked confused as I fell into his crotch and wept. I think this may have resulted in yet more sex......
Today, by chance I found myself on the Netmums website where this article naturally caught my eye 'What happens to women when they become Mums?' Sadly I wasn't able to read the full article because The Times wanted me to subscribe, although what I read on Netmums was enough to make me mad.
In short the article is about how as mums we often 'let ourselves go'. Of course, this never happens to Dads. To be frank I don't give a fuck whether you want to do the school run in tracksuit bottoms with egg stains and slipper socks or in a Versace gown. It's called choice. And perhaps if women weren't trying to keep the world turning all the time we might have time for preening. No, this is what really fucked me off. After a makeover, it seems, Louise Carpenter writes the following.
"What do you see when you look at the makeover results? I tell you what I see. A woman whose arms are too podgy for that beautiful £1,630 dress. I look at the picture and wish I were a dress size smaller (it’s a 12). The shoes are so glorious, but I couldn’t walk in them. I look OK, but by my calculation, I think that look must have cost close to £2,500. How many ballet/violin/swimming/riding lessons is that? How many shopping trips to Sainsbury’s? It’s a lot of money and a lot of time. It pains me to say it, but it was a relief to take off that wonderful Lanvin dress. I have to admit, too, that spoiling as it was, I wanted to go home. You see, everything comes at a price. That night, my little girls did not get a story in bed with me wearing my pyjamas."
Oh just fuck off.......fuck off. Why do we think that sacrificing ourselves entirely for our children is something to aspire too? "Ballet/Violin/Swimming lessons". Oh just fuck off!!!!I don't care about the Lanvin dress or the shoes and if she wants to wear her pyjamas then that's just fine but don't give me that sentimental bullshit about your girls not getting their story. Where the fuck is Daddy? And do you have to read your children a story every goddamn night? Get over yourself.
Long deep breath.........Apologies to Louise Carpenter who I do not know personally and who is probably a very nice person. But Louise, you really got on my tits today. I obviously still have not recovered from Christmas. I knew there was a reason I was staying away from this blog!