Nag, nag, nag. All day long.
Get UP. Are you up yet? Have a shower. Did you brush your teeth? Where did you TAKE OFF your shoes? WHY have we no hair elastics? Is this Barbie hair or dog hair in the sink? Take your lunch. Take your LUNCH. Take YOUR lunch, not your sister’s. Wear a coat. Not THAT coat. Bring out your dead, I mean WASHING. Flipping washing machine on the blink again. Where’s the dog’s lead gone? Don’t tell me it’s raining again. No, we’ve no bread left for toast. Who’s sock is this in the microwave? Bring out the DIRTY DISHES from under the sofa. How did all these apple cores get behind the radiator? Open your curtains. The place looks like a tenement. How long has this mouldy sandwich been in your pocket? Are you seriously telling me that your biro leaked AGAIN? Who ate ALL the cheese? I KNOW there was a bar of chocolate in here. Don’t tell me the dog puked again. Turn off the kettle before it EXPLODES.
Stop, I said, STOP. Stop and smell the bluebells.
Guess what? I found the switch for the nagging. It wasn’t easy to locate. It’s lodged somewhere between the ‘I’m trying to raise my kids to be decent people‘ and ‘If I say this again I’m going to crack‘ areas of my brain.
(Get it? Crack. sorry.)
For one week only, I let go. Nagging OFF.
To facilitate a break from the laundry treadmill, I declared an official pyjama week. I bought a ton of bread and we made toast mountains. The kids agreed to make one dinner each.Teenage Daughter made scrumptious tacos. Middle Girl’s rasher salad was super-tasty.
‘Can I make pasta?’ Teenage Son enquired when it came to his turn.
‘Sure’, I replied, forgetting that he is Italian.
Four hours for a bowl of pasta. Good job we had all that toast on stand-by. It was worth it though for fresh tagliatelle with wild garlic pesto. Yum.
It rained and hailed and blew a gale outdoors so we snuggled on the sofa and caught up on our Gilmore Girls marathon. We are up to season 5. In other words we are up to Logan or, as I insist on calling him, Cary (from The Good Wife).
I’ve had such a giggle with the girls. We all keep shouting at the telly, ‘MARTY! Look at Marty! Oh, poor Marty!’
If Marty had just looked up she might have noticed him. I’m pretty sure Marty is the guy who would bring Rory coffee in bed on Sunday mornings and walk colicky babies at night and clean s**t off the dog’s rear end. Girls should think about that stuff when they are choosing a man. A stretch limo won’t help when the kids have gastro. By the way, no spoilers please! We don’t know what happens!!
I won’t tell you how many episodes a day we watched. You would call social services on me. It was enough episodes to get my shrug finished although finished is a relative term. My yarn was labelled 4ply but it was really much finer than that. You might call it lace weight but I think gossamer is more like it. It made up much smaller than the pattern predicted so I had to keep adding rows and rows, episode after episode. I know, we’re back to that check your guage issue. I never learn. Eventually, I just quit and sewed it up.
I got out of my pyjamas to pose for you but I didn’t put on make-up or dry my hair. I tried clicking ‘enhance’ repeatedly on the photo-editing but it wasn’t sufficient to the task so I resorted to cropping. I’m not sure about this thing. It looks like a bit of old net you might find on the beach. I could hang a few shells and some bladderwrack around my neck to complete the look.
I have a whole skein of this hand-spun, hand-dyed gossamer from Irish Fairytale Yarns leftover. Suggestions on a postcard please…
I was also completely negligent of the blog so my apologies for any posts or comments that got by me.
I’d like to thanks it’s good to be crazy sometimes for nominating me for the Sunshine award. I firmly believe that Crazy is the true path to happiness. If you’re with me, take a look at that blog.
The kids are back at school now. There’s a wash hung out on the line and a pot of stock on the hob. I’m just about ready to flick that nagging switch back to ON.