Excuse me while I get a little grumpy and self-pitying.
Seriously. That's a warning. If you're looking for uplifting, inspiring or happy, click away now.
There's nothing actually wrong at the moment, but at the same time nothing's actually quite right either.
I've worked solidly today, not stopping for lunch, or B, who's here working too and periodically wants distracting for five minutes: reading files, analyzing missing areas, emailing people who might have the information and getting to within half an hour of having to pick up the girls with nothing actually to show for it other than a table covered in pieces of paper which are no longer in their orderly piles and will probably take longer than the available half hour to clear up.
There's nothing wrong, we all have days like that, and it probably will actually turn out to have been quite productive, when these people get back to me, but for the moment, it feels not good enough.
Once I've got the girls I've got some lovely people coming round for kids' tea and adults' drinks. The thing is, I really like these people. In a really sad way, I want them to be our friends. We've been trying to arrange a meet up for months and this is the first time it's happened. Only B arranged it. And he's arranged it for 5 pm on a Friday evening, when I'm tired, the girls are tired and our standard children's supper is eggy bread and baked beans. And of course I can give the lovely people's children eggy bread and baked beans, but it's hardly impressive is it? It doesn't say: I really like you and I went to lots of effort for you. It says, Well, that's fine and it'll do, but it's not really good enough.
There's no food in the house either. It's been cheese sandwiches for lunch all week. Which is fine because B's working in the office while the builders are here, so it's only me, but it still hardly the mybodyisatempleandababygrowingtempleatthat regime that I'm apparently supposed to be following is it? Plus there's only so inspirational I can be for supper with half a manky swede, two leeks and a bag of pasta...
I'm cross with the builders too. It's their fault. They were brilliant and superb for the first two months, but the pace has slowed and although what they're doing is still of fantastic quality and they're pleasant and smiley and tidy it just feels like things aren't happening as quickly as I'd like them to. I can't help feeling that some of that's my fault too - they want me to make decisions, which I can't, because samples don't arrive, or B and I suddenly find we really care about the precise shade of floor tile and put off a decision because it's easier than arguing about it, or I find something I like but I can't rid myself of the feeling that if I just spent another ten minutes on the internet I'd find something I liked more, and cheaper - and I'm just getting to the stage where I want it done.
I don't feel like a good mother at the moment either - I can't get through five minutes without asking the little ones if they need a wee; which is understandable, but doesn't make for fun parenting, and L's driving me mad. I came down the stairs with a load of washing this morning to find her going up. I said "Downstairs please L, it's time to go to nursery" and, well, and she solemnly kept going up. And I could have screamed and shouted, but instead I just felt utterly defeated. If I can't get her to do something as innocent as go downstairs when I want her to, what hope have I got with the big stuff?
I'm a rubbish friend too. We were supposed to be down South this week, seeing people we love. We cancelled, for all sorts of very valid and understandable being utterly exhausted reasons. And I know they understand, but it doesn't stop me feeling bad. As does the 73 unanswered messages on my facebook, and the not quite so many, but just as important ones in my inbox. Because these people matter to me, and I'm not treating them like they do.
Let's not get on to being a wife either. Pants with Names made me laugh this week recounting that her son had told her that he wanted to marry someone just like her when he grew up. Only less grumpy. The problem is I suspect B feels rather the same...
And I just feel rubbish. My legs need waxing, my toenails need painting, my eyebrows need plucking and all my trousers are falling down. And the girls don't care, and B doesn't care (is that a good thing or a bad thing, I never know?) but it still adds to the general disgruntledness.
In the grand scheme of things that matter, this blog is pretty low on the list, but I don't feel like I'm doing that well either. I'm not proud of it at the moment, and given it's another one of my babies, even if not one that needs its bottom wiped, that bothers me too.
And my chair I'm re-covering isn't working, and I'm a year and a bit behind with the photographs, and the bins all need emptying, and I've got to work out what we're going to eat next week so that B can go to Tesco's at the weekend, and it's L's birthday next month and I have no idea what we're going to get her, and can't even begin to think about a party, and I've got a baby coming in two months and I don't know where all our baby stuff is, much less whether its still useable, and I still haven't filled in the paperwork for the person who's going to come and help us when the baby arrives, and I haven't got the washing out that I put in at 7 am this morning and, and, and...
..and, as previously discussed, it's ridiculous and selfish to feel like this when there's so much worse going on in the world. Shut up Harriet. Get over it.
Sorry about that. Consider it my contribution to Muddling Along's Ranty Friday...
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