Why do I get in such a state?

I spoke to Child 1 on Friday and asked if I would see her on Saturday (yesterday) and she had said “yeah probably”.  Since moving in with the boyf, we usually see her a couple of times a week, after work, when she either a) can’t be bothered to cook b) has no food in or c) the boyf is out and she can’t be bothered to sort a meal out for herself.  This really winds “The Pig” up as he points out, on a regular basis, that they have more income going into their house than we do! 

Anyway, yesterday she was a no show.  It got to lunchtime and I rang her, but got no answer so I tried her mobile, still no answer.  A couple of hours later, I tried both numbers again – nothing.  I rang  child 2 and asked if she had heard from child 1, she said she hadn’t but had tried to ring her at lunchtime to sort out a lift to a party, but hadn’t got an answer. 

Dinner time came and went and still nothing.  I left messages on both answer machines – nothing.  I was getting the hump to think that she was not returning my calls, “The Pig” said she was probably “pissed up” in a pub somewhere after watching the football with the boyf – charming!

I rang ex-husband in the evening, twice, but got no answer.  Rang Child 2 at party to find out where ex-husband was and she said he was out, which pissed me off as I was hoping he could go round to child 1’s to see if all was OK.

I went to bed really worried.  As I lay there, heart racing, thinking she could have been in an accident or worse still the boyfriend had chopped her up into little pieces and had deposited her into a suitcase and flung her off the cliffs, but then remembered, that at 5ft 10, he might have had to use more than one case to fit her in. 

I finally fell into a disturbed sleep, wishing that she still lived at home and wondering why she still doesn’t tell me where she is going, or why she has never given me the boyf mobile number even though she moved out 5 months ago and is 20 in 9 days time.

At 1.30 am I was awoken by a text message which said “Oh my god.  Ten missed calls.  Been at a party in Ashford all day.  Just got back had left mobile in doors.  Chill”

Oh dear no doubt I am in her bad books but I can’t help worrying, if only she had told me, in the morning, that she wouldn’t be round, all this could have been avoided.  It isn’t my fault is it?  even “The Pig” was getting worried!

Why am I always right?

Friday, Child 1, I ring her,

“what are you doing tonight”

“going to … to meet up with S on her last night at Uni before the Easter Break”

Now, I may have told you that Child 1 was supposed to go to Uni last Sept, after a Gap year, which of course I told her was a mistake to take.  I figured that once she started earning money she would find that hard to give up and I was worried she would get a boyfriend, which she did.  Then come September, the Uni offer letter which was stuck on kitchen door with “Yey, I’m going to Uni” scrawled across it, mysteriously disappeared…..

Late on Friday night, 11.38 to be precise, whilst I was happily in the land of nod, I heard a strange beeping sound, which upon waking, my eyes told me that a message had appeared on my mobile.  Thinking that something terrible had happened to someone terrible (the pig was out with the boys) and fearing I would have to dig out the insurance policies, I found that the text wasn’t from or about “the pig” but from child 1 and it said this:-

Mama I’m fed up of my life and I’m going to teach drama

To which I responded with:-

Oh

Then she text:-

I’m calling School first thing Monday to get it sorted to do teaching experience.  I’m so upset I want to cry”

To which I responded with:-

Oh, Why?

Then she said:-

Night.  Love you. Because I haven’t done anything with my life x.

I didn’t say much, I know, but it was late and she had woken me up.

Saturday she came round and apologised for waking me but she was drunk and surrounded by students and it really got to her.  I reminded her that she couldn’t ring School on Monday as Easter Break had started.  I enquired how would she manage with money as she was used to earning £7,000+ in local travel agent but she said that was shit and probably worked out to less than minimum wage per hour and if she was Drama Teacher she would start on £25,000.  She can’t speak to the Uni she was supposed to go to, as she didn’t even let them know she wasn’t going and she can’t go to the one nearest to where we live as they require 340 points for Drama and she doesn’t have that many.  Lots of teachers are always talking about her to my other daughters so today she emailed Miss K, head of 6th Form to see if she can offer some advice.  I assume she would get full funding as she supports herself now what with living with boyf, but I don’t know how they would cope without her money, or whether her plans will come off if she can’t get a place locally so she can travel each day.  Only time will tell and as I reminded her today, if she had taken my advice everything would have been alright and it is about time she learnt that Mum is always right.

Kids say the funniest things

My little man is now 8 & 1/2, and we are going through the questioning stage.  I do remember the girls going through this phase and if I remember rightly it drove me bloody nuts, after all, they are so close in age I was probably getting asked stupid questions for about 6 years in total!

Anyway we are currently being asked everything from our favourite colour, to footballer, day of the week, flavour of ice cream etc etc

In the bath the other night he asked me some different kinds of questions.

Him: Mum, how much toilet roll do you use?

Me: We get through about 6 rolls a week, 2 in each toilet

Him: (flustrated) no, no I don’t mean that, how much toilet roll do you use when you wipe your bum?

Me: Erm, oh right, about 6 squares each time I guess

Him: I use about 4

Me: Thats because you have a smaller bum than Mummy!

Him: and how many times do you do it?

Me: Erm, until the paper is clean of course – I thought I had told you all this when you started to do it yourself

Him: Um

Now I realise that any talk of poo, wee, pants and farts seems to entertain not just boys, but men for ages and bring about hysterical laughter and endless giggling, when us ladyeee’s would rather just ignore the subject, but I think I would have been less embarrassed if he had asked me my Cup size! Mind you, knowing me, I would probably have said I prefer a Mug to a cup and saucer!

Fat Fighters

Well I finally caved in to the pressure of  ”The Pig” constantly moaning about my eating habits and joined Fat Fighters last night. On Mothering Sunday he said “look at you, you are fat and lazy” and in my head, my crazy brain responded with ”f@@k off, boll@@ks your a c@@t”. Bloody hell, if you can’t be lazy on Mothers Day when can you? and this was after I got up at 7am, unloaded the dishwasher, put some washing on, tidied up and swept through downstairs, did a pile of ironing and peeled the parsnips and sprouts, made tea when our guests arrived, and cleared up the mess he made whilst cooking Sunday lunch that was not too dissimilar to  “Hiroshima” on a worktop!

 I re-loaded the dishwasher after dinner, bathed our little prince and finally sat down peacefully to watch “The City” (why am I not 23 and working for Diane Von Furstenburg in the Meat packing district of New York?) and then after a bit of blog reading – Lost. So that was it, the insult did it this time, even though I have been hearing something similar for the last 3 months.  No doubt his intention all along, has been to shock me into doing something about my ever expanding midrift – but does he have to be so cruel?
At Fat fighters, I told our local version of Marjorie Dawes, if I didn’t turn up in about 4 weeks time, she had permission to come round my house and drag me to her meetings by my hair! she found that rather interesting and wrote on my weighing in sheet “can pester by text, email and via facebook”. I explained to her that middle age spread (something I thought of as a falicy in my twenties and thirties) had taken over my waistline and that my muffin top now closely resembled a mountain top. She ran through the diet with me and issued me with some books telling me what I can and can’t eat and her mobile number should I need some support, midweek.

I came back from FF and “The Pig” asked what I weighed, I told him it was 1lb more than I thought I was.  Then he said “so your gonna pay £5 a week to stand on a set of scales, that in Boots would cost you 50p” “Yup” came my response, after all, I had already gone through the reasons I need to attend a club with him before I left.  He just shook his head and I, as usual, muttered some obsenity under my breath.

Something About Mary

Sitting here waiting for someone to make me breakfast and just went to run hands through hair via forehead, only to find that my finely hi-lighted mane was stuck with something!  Pulled it all out and it came away in largish white chunks not too dissimiliar to how I would imagine people with a bad case of dandruff address their hairline each day.  Only washed my precious locks on Friday night, so am a little perturbed as to what this white flaky substance could be.  Am wondering if a sexually frustrated intruder made his way into my room last night (god knows I’d sleep through anything) and in case you are thinking that such an event might have awoken “The Pig” – oh no, ye gods, no chance of that, as I have been in child 1’s room since she moved out on 28th December 2008, due to seriously bad snoring (mine, not his!).  I was literally evicted from the barley white sanctuary that was “our” bedroom and have since slept amongst four walls containing hundreds of pictures of drunk (or stoned) teenagers, is it any wonder I have nightmares? and will she ever take her stuff? I doubt it, as I also left my bedroom in exactly the same condition, many, many years ago.  In fact I rang my mum the other day and asked her to bring up my Beswick Palamino Horse figure I had when I was 7, on account I saw one on David Dickensons Real Deal programme.  Mum said ”oh no, your brother took that some time back when I had the workmen in” – yeah I bet he did, the bastard.  

So the mystery remains unsolved, but my concerns still linger, especially as “The Pig” was whistling as he left for his morning run and I haven’t heard that for sometime now!

Pig by name, Pig by nature

As all my readers know he is called the “The Pig” because he was one. In more ways than you can imagine. At 21 stone and with the personality of an arsehole, his title is, of course, was well deserved. Alas, since the 1st of January “The Pig” has been on some kind of keep fit campaign, which has included him watching his fat content (not a proper diet) and walking for an hour a day. After a few weeks, the walking became jogging and now almost 3 months and 3 stone lighter , “The Pig” is looking rather svelte with his 6ft 4in frame, as his beer belly has all but disappeared and although he still gets hungry, he has had the will power to resist, although he will sometimes have a treat or a weekend off. I am really pleased for him and proud that for once, he has actually achieved something he set out to do (other than make my life a misery), but it has been made easier for him by the fact that “Fat Cat City Lunches” have fallen by the wayside, along with the few drinks with the boys after work.

To be honest I am pretty sick of him standing in front of the mirror admiring his new found physique and showing me how he can fit into a suit he had 5 years ago and the endless jeans and tops and belts that would never do up, now fit quite nicely, with a previously unworn belt now making its way to the 4th hole! I just sit, nod and say “didn’t he do well” – there is only so much one can say isn’t there? that marginally beats “shut the f@@k up!”. Only problem is I do feel a little bit jealous and wonder what I would weigh if I had started out on this fitness quest with him. Unlike him, I don’t lose weight by cutting down, or cutting out bread and pasta, as some people do, I always have to stick to a proper diet, preferably one that involves attending a club where you are so ashamed of being weighed in front of people, especially when the person weighing you says in a rather loud voice “put on 3” oh bollocks, how did that happen? And when you lose a few pounds, they speak really softly so that no one else has the opportunity to be pleased for you.

He is also driving me nuts about what I eat. On and on and on he goes every bloody time something edible makes its way to my face. I was just hunting for my bar of Green & Blacks Milk Chocolate which the stupid f@@ker had put in the fridge (“the smoothness melts in your mouth” the wrapper says, well not when some twat has made it rock hard by putting it in the bloody fridge, nearly took me crowns off! Well he saw me eating it and came in from the garden and said “why are you eating that, we will be having dinner soon, just can’t stop yourself can you, look at the state of you” so this is where I want to take the meat cleaver to his jugular but instead say “hang on a minute, (doing my Lauren from Catherine Tate voice and body movements) it was only an hour ago you were eating those new Squirrel flavour crisps, so why are you, yet again, criticising my eating habits?” “Ah, those crisps are low fat” he responds with a grin wider than a Cheshire cat’s and an extremely smug look on his face. “Wanker” I mutter under my breath as he leaves the room. Thing is, the more he does it, the more I eat, purely to piss him off.

He comes back from his run, purple in the face, sweating like a pig, collapses on the sofa until he can move again and make his way to the shower and says to me “you really should take some exercise” as he sees me lug the Dyson upstairs, do my back in whilst cleaning the bath and mop the bloody solid wood floors that are all over the house. Can’t the bloody stupid bastard understand that you use up calories just by doing an hours ironing, according to the Weightwatchers handbook, in which case with all the frigging washing created in this house, means I should be somewhere in the region of 7 stone!

So perhaps the key to all of this is to get fatter and fatter until he f@@ks off. Some poor bitch may be fooled by his charm as I was in the early days and take him off my hands. It is quite obvious that as his figure improves and along with it, his self image and self importance, that I am no longer good enough. Funny how when I was carrying his son and in my last trimester, he used to say to me “you look so cute”, so what is the problem now? I am still 5ft 2in and my belly still looks like our eight year old son is living in it, so why am I not so cute now?

Some Mothers Do Ave Em

I walked in from work (well someone has to) to a massive row between child 2 and 3, where 2 was screeching at 3 about wearing her clothes. 3 had come in from school and put on an outfit which consisted completely of 2’s clothes, just to go and sit round her boyfriends house for the evening.  2 even gave 3 a light punch to the arm, which had 3 in hysteric’s and just led to 2 getting even more annoyed.  I tried to insist that 3 went upstairs and took off all of 2’s clothes as she has enough of her own, and when she gets undressed at night, she just throws clothes on floor and fills the laundry basket about once a month (after weeks of prompting) which means 2 can never find her things unless she goes into 2’s room (worse  than a  comic relief climb to kilamanajaro) and picks them up off floor and puts them in the wash herself.  3 went upstairs and a few minutes later we heard the front door go, so obviously she was still sporting 2’s attire as she left the house.  So I look forward to sorting this out once and for all, when she gets back later.

Child 1, unexpecting turned up with a bunch of flowers for moi, some Tesco belgian chocolates (which are half full of black ones – yuck, she knows I love Lindt truffles or Thorntons Toffee, so why not buy them?).  When I enquired as to why I deserved such gifts, she reminded me that she won’t be around on Sunday, due to weekend away with the “dope smoker”.  I was rather hoping for Revive skincare or Ren Otto Rose Shower Gel.  Why when I put myself to so much trouble to buy the perfect gifts for my children, are they so bloody unimaginative when it comes to buying for me?

The Drama Continues….

Sunday afternoon, 3 way conversation, Him, Me and Child 1 who now lives with Boyf:-

Him: Are you coming for Supper tomorrow with Boyf?

Child 1: Yeah that would good, what we having?

Him: Homemade Chicken pie

Child 1: Great.  Oh guess what, Last night boyf got really drunk and fell asleep on new DFS corner unit with can of beer in his hand and it spilt all over one seat

Me: Oh great, I hope you went mad at him

Child 1: Of course I did

Him: Thats what happens when you …(at this point he started to make jestures of smoking)

Me: What you talking about, he doesn’t smoke!

Him: Course he does, weed, I can see it in his eyes

Me: Don’t be stupid

Him to child 1: Doesn’t he?

Child 1: Yeah

Me: What! he smokes dope!

Him: You are so naive! it is obvious!

Me: Holy mother of god, my daughter lives with a junkie!

Child 1: Thats a bit over the top

Me: You don’t do it do you?

Child 1: No I don’t, I hate it, it stinks

Oh dear.

Monday afternoon, phonecall from Child1:-

Hi Mum, its me, Boyf won’t be coming for dinner

Why not

He has bought a drill home from work and wants to put some pictures up and then he has football

Oh right

Actually I think its because of what “He” said in front of you

You didn’t tell him did you?

Yes

Why did you do that?

Well he needs to know that people notice

Oh god, I don’t want him to feel awkward

Oh well – its all “His” fault

No its not, you shouldn’t have repeated the conversation

Oh dear.

So she came for supper, alone. 

Child 1: Oh mum just to let you know, I won’t be seeing you on Mothers Day as me and the boyf are going up North for the weekend to visit his relatives.

Sounds about right!

I am back with a vengence!

http://gettingink.typepad.com/getting_ink/2009/03/top-100-british-parent-blogs-and-bloggers.html I felt it only right and proper after stumbling across this on twitter and finding that I am on the list, even though I haven’t blogged for 9 months, that an explanation for my absence is in order. 

Dear Sir, marriedwithfour has been off for the last 9 months due to temporary insanity bought about by her selfish and still out of work husband and ungrateful children (little prince excluded).  It may take her some time to settle back in to a normal routine, but she is feeling much better now, and normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.  She has also suffered the enourmous blow of her eldest daughter a) not going to Uni because she got a boyfriend b) moving in with said boyfriend, after Xmas and c) she got a job on the High Street (oh the shame).

Yours faithfully

Is it any wonder I’ve got IBS?

I had a terrible row on Wednesday evening with Child 1, who refused at 7.15pm to run me up the co-op, in the Car that we bought her, because I had forgotten to do my Lottery. It went something like this:-

Me: Can you run me up the co-op, I need to do the Lottery?

Her: No

Me: Why not?

Her: I am still getting ready to go out and S will be here in a minute

Me: S, can wait in your room

Her: No, don’t be lazy, walk up there and you went to Tesco this morning why didn’t you do it then?

Me: Because I forgot – obviously! You make me die, you help yourself to my clothes, shoes and bags without asking, I even let you use my Marc Jacobs Stam bag for months when it was only supposed to be for one night! All one way traffic with you isn’t it? Oh and by the way, are you still borrowing my Pierre Hardy for Gap sandals tonight?

Her: Well obviously not.

Oh dear. The thing was, I wasn’t feeling too well otherwise I would have walked – honest! I have been suffering terrible stomach cramps and other symptoms which lead me to believe I may have IBS and am going to the Doctors later today for a diagnosis. I also believe Child 1 has IBS (Insolent Behaviour Syndrome).

It is now Friday morning and I still am not speaking to her. It makes things rather messy as it is her birthday on Monday and she was picking things out of the Tiffany catalogue the other day but with my Stomach Condition a trip to London for a jewellery purchase seems out of the question. I am also not talking to “Him”. “He” has buggered off on a Corporate Jolly to the Races (not that he is part of any Corporation at present), today and tomorrow, the Oaks and the Derby, me thinks. Last night whilst creased up on the sofa in pain, we had a conversation which went like this:-

Me: Oh, I wish I wasn’t feeling poorly with you going away for 2 days and the Girls at their Dads this weekend. What if something happens to me when I am alone with our Prince?

I do tend to get a bit panicky when faced with illness of any description.

Him: That’s probably why you are doing it?

Me: What?

Him: So that I don’t go.

Me: Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, I can’t wait to get rid of you for a couple of days.

I couldn’t believe he said such a thing!

This morning as I woke up at 6.30am:-

Him: I have made the kids pack up, so I let you have an extra half hour.

Me: Thanks

As he was walking out the front door at 6.40am:-

Him: See you later

Me: Oh hope you get on alright today at the doctors, hope you feel OK today!

Him: I don’t feel too great myself

Me: (as door was closing) F K Off

Can you believe his lack of concern? The fact that I didn’t even get a peck on the cheek goodbye? I have read Dulwich Divorcee’s column in The Times, all about her wishing her husband were dead and I have to say, it doesn’t seem like a bad idea at the moment!