Ranty McRantface

Ranty McRantface

(PROLOGUE: I’M YET TO WRITE IT BUT I SUSPECT THIS BLOG WILL CONTAIN EXTREME RANTING AND MOST LIKELY SOME HEAVY DUTY SWEARING.)

Anyone ever read up on the drug ecstasy in the name of being a good parent? When someone takes it, it sets off a chemical reaction in the brain that heightens the senses of the drug taker so that they suddenly become acutely aware of every single detail and really notice the beauty of every leaf, every water droplet – it’s a sensory overload resulting in euphoria (don’t do drugs kids!)

Well I’ve discovered the equivalent of an antipodal (opposite) chemical reaction in the brain of a mother. The reaction is sparked when the unlikely ingredients of a less than perfect time of the month and an email from your estate agent (‘great news we have a viewing for you tomorrow morning’) – then KABOOM! one crazy MOFO of a mother hollering at anyone within a ten metre radius. The ecstasy taker notices plants and clouds, whereas the mother notices the empty bottles of shampoo, mountains of cups sat in the dishwasher zone (just a mere centimetre or two from the dishwasher that she emptied only ten minutes before) and the trail of odd (dirty) socks, football boots and strange smells you can’t quite comprehend. The perfect storm; those unfortunate enough to witness it can do nothing to lessen the force (though they will probably just head off to their bedrooms safe in the knowledge that it will pass and she will of course clear up the mess she’s screeching about all by herself.)

But seriously though…..

Change the fucking toilet roll. Don’t drink the last of the milk; I NEED tea in order to run the bloody Marathon dés Sables that is twenty four hours of being a mother and I couldn’t give two shites about your calcium intake. DO NOT and I repeat DO NOT leave the seat up and when I leave folded clean laundry in your bedroom it is not a request for you to put it in the laundry basket to be washed again…. am I losing my tiny mind here?

When I cook vegetables; it’s because, if I don’t, when you’re an adult you’ll blame your ricketts/gum disease/athlete’s foot on me for the rest of your life so just sodding eat them ok? I know you’ll have  twenty seven other things to blame me for so let’s just knock this one the head please?

Oh and to prevent this possessed fishwife scenario from recurring let’s all take a moment to examine the tell tale symptoms that the shit is indeed about to hit the fan (prevention is better than cure). The bin will most likely be full to overflowing. If I start a new bin bag and put it next to the full bin bag it’s not generally because I enjoy smelling rancid rubbish in my kitchen. It’s because I will not ask you AGAIN to empty the bin and if we must I will wait until the end of time for you to take this bin out of your own volition. The ‘things’ that you brought inside that have no apparent use or allocated home will be placed randomly about my kitchen/dining room/staircase – oh and speaking of staircases… there will be large piles at the top and the bottom – you will know that they need carrying either up or down but you will have ignored them for so long that I am now ignoring them too to see how long I need to pretend it’s not my job before someone else decides they posses the essential skills to carry them up or down (ain’t never gonna happen.)

To conclude some days you do and somedays you don’t. Next time you hear your neighbours’ door slam and a frazzled looking woman jump in the car and screech off to… I don’t know the end of the road…. you’ll know that it’s just an unfortunate chemical reaction. She’s just noticing stuff in a not quite mindful way.

Rant over.

For now.

CMHQ x

(EPILOGUE: Ahhhhh. That feels better. Told you it would be sweary. Soz bout that!)

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