I have just stumbled across an unmoderated comment from Karen which asks if married life is now so hectic that I do not have time to post. Well, first, Karen, please accept my apologies for not responding, but my Yahoo! mail account, where I receive these alerts, will sometimes work and allow me to see my messages, and other times, it just cannot be bothered and tells me it 'appears to be having a problem loading this message'. I think it may be menopausal to be honest...One type of message it never fails to deliver is an offer to extend my penis. Since I still can't find my penis, despite years of looking, maybe this is a valid suggestion?
Is married life hectic? I guess attempting to get Mr Parsnip's breakfast right in the morning has become a bit of an ordeal...there's not enough golden syrup on his porridge; I have used sugar instead of golden syrup; the dried fruits aren't sweet enough and thus he needs sugar; he doesn't want mackerel...I have since gone on strike and told him he makes his own from now on. You can only kick a dog so many times before it turns and bites you on the bum. (Caveat: he has been so sweet recently, he got an omelette this morning...)
But, it's not so much married life which is hectic, it's being a full-time mother (as well as a full-time whipping boy to my boss, The Fat Controller) to a full-time teenager which is now starting to take its toll.
#1 has become the nightmare daughter. Not only does she do the usual things such as slamming doors, leaving dirty clothes everywhere, turning her bedroom into a filth magnet and decreasing the temperature of the room to sub-zero with her glares, she has now been in detention for kissing her boyfriend (a callow, spotty youth with a mono-syllabic vocabulary), flirts remorselessly with any male of her age, uses her dinner money for chewing gum or chocolate and La Senza underwear (which even I struggle to afford from time to time, hence my George at Asda (Walmart for our US reader) knickers) and lies through her back teeth to me.
Fortunately, I am blessed with one of the most suspicious minds known to man: I trust nary a soul, and can smell a set-up a mile off. You have to get up jolly early in the morning to get one over on me, and since I rise with the birds, you're not likely to get a lot of sleep in your endeavours...
After yet another saga last night which has resulted in two weeks' grounding, a ban from parties/sleepovers/breathing, a ban on the use of the house phone, and confiscation of her mobile once I can find the damned thing, and the application for Boarding School prospectuses, I remarked to Mr Parsnip that I was bewildered at how I could beg, plead, cajole, encourage, or threaten the same things over and over again, only to be ignored repeatedly. I was staring at the kettle at the time.
"Look at that kettle. You ask it to boil. It says, OK, and Bob's your uncle. One pot of boiling water. Simple isn't it? Why can't she be as compliant?"
Mr P, for some odd reason, found this hilariously funny, and shook with laughter so much that he nearly fell off his perch on the kitchen worktop.
She has started to go through my wardrobe and shoes racks (of which there are many, I must confess) and asks if, when I die, she can have X, Y or Z pair of shoes. There are then the 'dumb blonde' questions (she is blonde by nature, but has enhanced with a dodgy dye I did for her last year) such as, 'Mum, if I put on three different deoderants, each with 24-hour protection, does that mean I don't have to wash for three days?'...The mind boggles...
#1 and I are now of similar dress sizes. It is not that she has put on weight, it is just that the weight has fallen off me with worry. (For our American reader, I weigh in at a size 4 and look like Cruella de Ville). She hates me for it, berates me for it, and tells me that I ought to be like all the other Mums. Her friends' mothers are all on the very short side (unlike me); bleached blonde (unlike me); work part-time or not at all (unlike me) and have the propensity to enjoy the occasional pie or double fish and chips. I am deemed 'un-Mumsy'. She still likes to nick my Karen Millen dresses, though...
She has her moments, though - such as when she wants to go horse riding, she will do all the family's ironing, as long as she gets in that car. She will also 'baby-sit' her 11-year old sister for unlimited use of the house phone to call her spotty boyfriend and she can make a mean lasagne.
When I am reincarnated, I will not return as a Mother. I will return as a hedgehog. They have fun...
