Baby Survivor

Those that know and love me know that I have a disability. Yes, I am domestically disabled. Others would call me a lazy git, but I'm going to go along with the idea that the reason my house is a tip is that I was born without the gene that most women have to clean, wipe, sweep and generally tidy things up. I will admit that I don't see the point of making beds when you are just going to get in and rumple them up again. Also, I feel tense in a tidy house. The point being, my husband is far neater than me and before he goes to bed is often found wiping up the crumbs in the kitchen to ward off the rabid band of mice that I have (unwittingly) been feeding with my slovenly habits.

In fact, my domestic situation is a lot like this clip of the Drunk Family from the Fast Show, (minus the alcohol, but I must admit my driving isn't much better than this. I will post a picture of the dents on my car one day to show what I mean).



My household situation is compounded by the fact that my children are - how to put this politely - somewhat feral, and tend to break/scratch/ruin most things they touch. The younger one, Sausage, also has a tendency to eat anything that isn't nailed down. The other day she came home with a picture she had made at school of a snowman made of glued on marshmallows. Before I could hang it up, she had eaten the marshmallows, glue and all. To be honest, Sausage is more or less a baby albino gorilla. She has furry forearms and loves to pull, twirl and hang from my hair as well as dangling around my neck. I'd love to have her take part in a reality TV series where kids had to live with a tribe of gorillas to see if they survived, a kind of 'Baby Survivor'. I'm pretty sure that Sausage would win hands down, happily living off lice picked out of the gorillas' hair.


This is why I could never have a boy. Seeing as how hyper my girls are, the boy would be like the Incredible Hulk, smashing through walls. For example, Sausage will bomb down from the steps in the basement onto the sofa, a height of about six feet. Often she will bomb down on top of Scarlett, which is probably a bad idea. Or one will stand on the door handle of a door while the other swings the door violently back and forth. Or once they both managed to open a window and climb out into the street. Certainly they are very acrobatic and clever but their, um, athletic skills have left the place a mess and frankly...ah yes, now I remember where I am going with all this, frankly I do not envy my husband the fact that he will be in sole charge of the kids, (affectionately known as 'the Pigs') for three days while I swan off to Seattle this weekend.

So, my husband has asked me the bizarre question, "What do I pack into Sausage's lunch box?" And while the answer would certainly be, "Anything with a pulse", I answered, "five chicken nuggets, a yogurt and a banana." This seemed to quash his lunch box anxiety.

I am almost feeling, well, guilty, about going away this weekend. I just feel like my husband does so much more around here than I do. Like this morning I get in my car to find he had scraped the ice off my windscreen before going to work. Like it would ever occur to me to do that for him!

Oh dear, I do feel bad. The thing is, he doesn't seem to care about my domestic disability. Admittedly, I am a very good cook. And I am amusing. And, er, I am intelligent. And I am fabulous. But, anyway, let me not put myself down, all I am saying, dear readers is, I think my husband deserves a present for looking after the kids this weekend, don't you?

So, all suggestions welcome, and let's try and have something a little more original than 'a blow job' please.

Have a great weekend, I know I will!