Five Minute Friday – Song

Shhhh…. it’s Saturday, but I won’t tell if you won’t.

My Five Minute Friday is a little delayed but better late than never I always say!

This week’s topic is: SONG

So without further ado:

I’ve always wished that I could sing. And by sing I mean having a half decent singing voice, not the crackly strained alto I currently possess.  I bravely took up choir in high school, secretly jealous of the sopranos with notes like tinkling bells, while I slouched in the back row and croaked along like a timid toad.  But honestly I’m not that bad. I think.  I held out hope that my kids would be blessed with better pipes than I was. Until recently that hope was high – and then I caught my daughters’ rendition of Incy Wincy Spider.  Clearly the inability to carry a tune runs in the family. As I type this I can hear my mother churn out a song in the kitchen. It is being butchered. Something mournful and reminiscent of ancient Sunday services in the parish church. Scary yet somehow soothing in its familiarity.  Sing, song, sung.

True story.  And I made myself chuckle!

Happy Friday, er Saturday!

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Me, mad? Never!

This morning a close friend said to me “you always seem angry” (or unhappy, or something of the sort, I can’t remember verbatim) and I remember feeling completely gobsmacked. A plethora of choice retorts instantly sprang to mind, none of them I can repeat here in this post… (maybe he had a point? Haha) My second reaction was one of defense. Who is at their best at 9am? I sure as hell am not, especially when the only place I want to be is back in my warm bed and not trudging up the hill toward my house, post school run.

My third reaction? Tears.

I felt wounded and, as the upset subsided, I sort of saw his point. I am a little stressed out these days. Ok, A LOT stressed out. Between trying to be supermom (school runs, parent/teacher meetings, morning assemblies, playgroups) and superstudent (yeah, that dissertation isn’t gonna write itself), I seem to have lost myself along the way. And somehow my sadness and stress has painted me as some kind of mad black woman. That isn’t to say I’m not trying. I really am trying to relax and have fun when I can.

These days I’m actually wearing a bit of makeup, buying cute things for my hair, and picking up the odd Glamour magazine. Last week I bought the most fabulous pair of electric blue suede high heels. That would cheer anyone up, hehe.

I think as moms we really can never underestimate the importance of “ME” time. Without it, it’s really easy to slip away into maternal oblivion.  Next on my agenda is a girlie weekend, methinks.

Anything to avoid being “that angry girl”. And if my friend says that again, I might punch him.

Gently. 🙂

Under the weather

Emilie caught a cold. So she gave it to Zoie. Who then gave it to me. When I taught my kids about sharing, this isn’t what I meant.

Now my house is filled with a chorus of coughs. A symphony of sniffles. A frenzy of fevers.

The past two nights I’ve spent lying in bed with a hot, stuffy, sticky toddler on my chest. Dead weight crushing my lungs, pinching my bladder. The slightest movement on my part setting off ear-splitting screeches as she protested my right to breathe, swallow, think. I had a wedgie I couldn’t resolve for 3 hours. This, is the definition of self-sacrifice.

And  in between these fretful nights, I sat in class. My longest was a 6 hour stretch. Slumped in my seat. Straining my brain to focus on contemporary art, the film industry, Italo Calvino, huh? I subsisted solely on vending machine fare scavenged from the uni cafeteria during 15 minute breaks. Paprika flavored corn crisps, blueberry fruit bites, and frosty cold Dr. Pepper.  Wholesome delicacies.

Dinner came in the form of a tub of chicken yakisoba, slurped greedily on the 21.43 Southwest train service to Alton. Heartburn was par for the course. And when I lumbered into the house minutes shy of 23.00, my real work began. Shrugging off my coat and scarf, hurriedly taking a minute to pee. There were medicines to be administered, little people to soothe. The shower, she is a luxury.

And to ice the cake, is my own sore throat. A bitter, grating, I’ve-swallowed-razor-blades type sensation. Thankfully it has eased somewhat. Somewhat.

At the insistence of my mother (what would we do without them?) I took Emilie to the GP today to investigate the contagion cough. I sat on a squeaky plastic chair and prattled off a list of symptoms to a slightly flustered lady doctor with a flame orange bob and a pronounced mole on her chin.  She’ll never need to dress up on Halloween, I thought. One of those thoughts you have in a split second before filing it away to the back of your mind with the rest of the Thoughts You Can’t Believe You Had — like when you wondered what it would be like to make-out with one of the Hanson brothers…

So the doctor did the ear thing, the throat thing, the temperature thing, the take deep breaths thing. Asked about allergies and aversions. Thought for a moment. Consulted a book. Consulted her computer screen. Had another go with the deep breaths, removed stethoscope, inclined her head and concluded “chest infection” in a decidedly triumphant tone. She returned to her computer and tapped at the keys noisily.

“One spoonful, 3 times a day. And 2 puffs if she’s wheezing.”

That’s all well and good — spoons and puffs. But a little honey and lime and sunshine never killed anyone. The drab weather is the culprit, I’m sure of it. Me and the kids need to be on a beach somewhere. Soaking up some UV love. Could she use that fancy pad of hers to prescribe us some plane tickets home? We are island girls after all.

“It’s going around,” says the doc.

Doesn’t it always?

I gave a wan smile and thanked her. Downstairs I gathered up my sniffling, snotty offspring and we set off toward the high street pharmacy dreaming of palm trees, parrots, and pina coladas.

There’s no such thing as 30

It recently dawned on me (as these things often do) that I will be turning 29 in a few months. And if we all paid careful attention in math class then we should know that the big 3-0 is not that far behind…

This horrifying illuminating realisation inspired me to write an ode to the approach of three decades. It neatly sums up precisely how I feel about getting older.

There’s no such thing as 30,

29 is also fake,

I’m certain I’ve not turned 28, there must
be some mistake.

I don’t recall a 27, perhaps I was in a
meeting?

26 I missed, I’m sure of this – must have
happened while I was sleeping.

At 25 I reached halfway – to what, I’m not
quite sure,

Because I’m absolutely positive I never
turned 24.

23? No, that wasn’t me – another one I’ve
missed.

I shan’t discuss the 22, it just does not
exist.

I should have spent my 21 drinking in a bar,

But since my liver’s in top shape, I didn’t
get that far.

So I guess I must be 20! I’m sure it’s what
I know.

Does it matter that I’ve been 20 for the
last 8 years or so?

Written by Mish, in her head, during the school run on a particularly windy autumn morning.