It’s been a while! There was Christmas, which was lovely and little love himself had thee best time. He is such a believer of all things Christmas (like his mama) so it was more than magical except when he declared he needed a poo before opening his presents. I think it was all the excitement. Then there was New Year which was also lovely spent with family and friends. Kinda regretted the late nights, we all ended up with ‘festive jet-lag’ including the pre schooler so that was not a fun turnaround. I ate too much, drank too much and haven’t yet rectified this situation but something’s gotta give and it’ll probably be a chair! I’ve made zero resolutions, still give zero fucks about the things I gave zero fucks about before and that is likely to continue.

I spent yesterday shovelling snow only for it to snow again overnight. I’ve had a flat tyre, been a damsel in distress while rescued by the RAC and therefore slightly stressed out as a result. Husband is away so at this very moment in time little love and I are still in bed, he has the ever educational company of the iPad as I type away and fanny about customising themes on the blog.

We will surface soon, get out our pyjamas, face the snow and start the day but for now this is exactly where I want to be. Until later when we go and get him registered for school, how the fuckity fuck did this happen?

Could be in the market for a surrogate soon…

CV’s and personal statements can be emailed directly.

Husband Eve – a definition:

‘A time when the arrival of the husband is imminent, when there is one more sleep until paired parenting can resume; a time when one must act like they have had their shit together for the last two weeks; a time to tidy the fucking house’.

I created the above definition this morning as I enthusiastically told my little one that there was ‘only one more sleep until daddy comes home!’ We do the countdown daily and now it brings us ever closer to the family reunion.

I get excited about Husband Eve for a number of reasons (and not the ones he might think). I get back up, I get help raising the little person who runs amok in the house, I get to sleep in, I get to go out (after 7pm) and most importantly I get to see how much my little boy loves having his daddy home.

Then I get unexcited about Husband Eve. I get the fear of having to cohabit again (and not watch as much Netflix). I get the fear that little love favours daddy and I get shunned for a while (this is ok really, I get it but it still hurts). I get the fear that just as I’ve adjusted to ‘family life’ he will go away again.

Anyone who has a partner who works long hours, shifts, is in the military, or the offshore industry etc will get this. Anyone who solo parents permanently be it through separation or bereavement gets my utmost respect. It’s not easy, it’s hard bloody work, it’s lonely, it’s a juggling act and during those times when your tiny person resembles Satan himself it feels almost impossible.

And now I must go and do all the washing that’s been left laying in heaps on the floor, I must do a decent food shop (not just daily trips to the M&S Simply Food Garage where I squander most of my money) and I must hide all the shite I’ve been eating cos I’m meant to be on a diet and I must ditch the empties into the recycling bin so he doesn’t think I’ve got a problem.

And then I’ll breath a sigh of relief and celebrate Husband Eve with my little one when I can be arsed enough to go and pick him up from nursery!

Once too bendy for pilates this is now more like it. It’s a fusion fail but at least I don’t have to worry about cracking out a fart anymore.

It’s just gone 8am and I’ve literally turned the whole house upside down looking for the only thing that can save me in the morning, and it’s not coffee.

We’ve only gone and lost the bloody iPad!! I broke out in a cold sweat when the small person laying next to me (cos he’d pissed his own bed) stated ‘it’s not on daddy’s side’!

I jump up like the bed is crawling with spiders and frantically start shouting ‘where is it then?’ He hears me mutter ‘bloody iPad’ and ‘Jesus Christ’ (well it is Sunday) and then there’s some ‘fuck sake’s’ until finally just ‘fuck this.’ This is all said stealth like as he’s in another room helping with the search.

I had to admit defeat for a while and it was time to get ‘up up’ and venture into the living room for some cbeebies torture. I’m resenting the iPad like a mofo at this point! I throw my little iPad lover some brioche and have a coffee all the while wondering if it’s at all possible that someone breached the security alarm last night and actually stole the iPad. It’s the only rational explanation I can come up with at this time in the morn.

I can stand it no more and it’s time to get out the big guns, I try to move the big bastarding bed since this is the last place I can confidently say I saw it. It’s there, laying like a beacon of hope underneath the heavy base and so I breathe, the first full breath since it was declared lost. I kindly now ask my wee friend to come and squeeze in behind the beast of a bed to pick it up.

He looks at me smiling and squeals “you’ve found the bloody iPad!’ There is much mutual relief and delight that we can lay side by side ignoring each other again for an hour or so.

Bit of a puzzle for you this morning! Can you find the mark on the ceiling? Take your time, it’s not exactly staring you in the face.

If you can’t don’t worry, because my four year old can. He spotted this minuscule mark on his ceiling the other night and it caused such distress that he refused to sleep in his own bed (this is not uncommon just a new complaint). He was deeply fearful that the mark was moving, that it would fall off and so a bedtime breakdown began.

His genuine upset and already lack of sleep courtesy of daylight saving meant there was no quarrel about this tiny person dictating where he slept that night. I did try to demonstrate that the mark would come off. Cue me, 5ft something trying to balance on his bed with a brush in hand aiming at the high ceiling and hoping to fuck the mark would fall off and that would be the end of this nightmare. Alas no! So not to be defeated by the mark and it’s maker (him) I got the mop out thinking it will wipe off. Did it fuck.

So in he came, to my super king size sanctuary and nodded off in contented smugment. Little did he know my plan to emulsion the ceiling the next day, he would be back in his own room once more. I would be the victor!

He had other plans, I awoke in the morning after a night of miniature martial arts and kung fu to the throat only to discover he had slept like a log and pissed my bed just to prove who was boss!

So today I had the pleasure of yet another hospital visit. This time for an ultrasound of the gut. I’d known the gallstones have been lurking since the start of the year without causing much hassle. Not so much the last few weeks. Ouch!

This was not just any hospital visit, this was the new ‘Super’ hospital in Glasgow. In the several hours I spent there I witnessed a patient eating a lighter, a member of the cleaning staff dealing with ‘explosive diarrhoea’ (not mine), and a cuffed man with his two handlers. Interesting place!

I waited to see the doctor about the results, waited is an understatement. It’s just gone 6pm at home and they’ve only just called. They called because I refused to stay any longer without pain meds which they aren’t allowed to prescribe me in the ‘Super’ hospital. Husband even went to WH Smith to purchase painkillers, but was informed they cannot sell painkillers in the ‘Super’ hospital grounds. Super shite!

“Sack this” I said and informed the nursing staff in Drake fashion that I’d be leaving and they could call me on my cell phone.

To be continued…