It was just one of those days you hate

Press, 29 June 1988, Page 12

It was just one of those days you hate

Long before your head lifts off the pillow in the morning you know it is going to be one of those days you would rather do without.

The dogs are scratching at the back door to be let out, and the children are scatching at the bedroom door to be let in. Out in the kitchen you discover that "someone” has neatly done up the top of an empty Weetbix packet and placed it back on the pantry shelf. You now spend 10 minutes arguing with a small and tearful child, pleading the case for porridge. The jury of one finally rules in favour of porridge, having just found that the alternative to porridge is nothing. The dinner party which provided you with some marvellous entertainment the night before is now being unfairly blamed for the drum solo which is warming up just below your left temple. The dogs wander back in with what looks like a strip of blue plastic between their teeth. A quick race to the front of the house confirms that it is rubbish day and you now have to rebag not only your rubbish, but the neighbours’ as well.

Back in the dining room the porridge is being stirred around sulkily by small child, who waits until I am putting an even smaller child in the highchair before sliding his porridge plate to the dogs. The end of the porridge is followed by a demand for toast, with jam, peanut butter, and marmite all on the same slice. Predictably, this toast just gets a tiny nibble out of one corner before also being passed on to the dogs.

Husband wanders in and asks if there is any chance of a cup of tea, finds the breadbin empty and wonders aloud if it is really necessary to give the dogs a cooked breakfast.

Relying on the theory that you are less likely to kill anyone in a public place I bundle two children into the car and take them to the beach. Small child runs about in three layers of clothing screaming with delight whenever the waves come within 10 metres of him. Smaller child gazes about in wonder. Feel better.

Stop at the dairy and decided to stock up on bread, bacon, and at least 20 other items which slipped off the grocery list. Go to write a cheque

and remember that the bank had kindly posted me two cheque books on Tuesday evening, which, by Monday evening, had still not reached me.

Compromise on 20 items, buy loaf of bread and something sticky for small child to wipe over the back seat of the car.

Arrive home prepared to spend an afternoon curled up in front of the fire with a pile of Little Golden Books and two less than little golden children and find that my breakfastless husband -is on a fresh air binge and all windows and doors are wide open to let the full effect of the southerly blast into every corner of the house.

I turn a becoming shade of blue and suggest that mid-winter is not a good time to expose ourselves to fresh air. He counters with the argument that the house is full of cigarette smoke. My cigarette smoke. I point out sweetly that we both smoke.

Before the argument deteriorates to such a point that we actually stoop to counting cigarette butts in the ashtray the smaller child indicates that lunch, a clean nappy, and a sleep would be nice. This accomplished I turn to my small child and ask sweetly if he too would like a little afternoon nap. He says he would not. I ask him if he would like to spend the rest of his formative years in traction. He says he would like the nap. Husband points out calmly that he looks after the children all week without resorting to standover tactics. I retreat to the bedroom and decide to finish wallpapering.

Husband chooses to make his tour of inspection just as I am hanging a large picture over an even larger air bubble which refuses to go away.

He assesses the situation, notes the look on my face, and wisely decides that any comment on the air bubble would only be inflammatory. Instead, he promises me that tomorrow will be better.