There really is a day for everything. For example, today, June 19, is World Juggler’s Day. I think I’ll skip beginner’s bean bags and head straight to flaming torches. I’m an expert on juggling spinning plates so maybe entry level classes are not for me.
Tomorrow is Father’s Day. It is also Summer Solstice. Monday is National Selfie Day, because if you don’t share it on the socials did it even happen? I think I’ll pass but Hello Tuesday!
Tuesday June 22 is National Kissing Day – someone tell the mister to get his chap stick slathered on his beautiful, big lips as I’m puckering up in anticipation.
There are 365 days of something or someone to celebrate or support or sponsor or feel guilty about. Then we must consider the months. Brace yourself, we’re halfway through the year we should have heat waves, BBQs and just a little mourning over lost summer getaways but as you dust off your garden furniture, try to remember June alone boasts ownership of LGBTQ Pride Month; Men’s Health Month; National Safety Month; Acne Awareness Month; National Adopt a Cat Month and Aquarium Month.
To keep us right, we have a calendar on the kitchen wall. If something isn’t on the calendar, it simply doesn’t exist. We attempt to coordinate one business, five people and two hairy dugs.
Last week the calendar rudely announced the kids would be off school. Followed up with the news himself started back on shift the day they came off. Five whole days to juggle childcare, work, and the dogs.
I asked middle kid what she fancied doing? I was swiftly informed an arrangement was already in place for her/them to go and visit their aunt. Having not seen her since before lockdown, it was apparently time to rectify this.
A sly genius at work
Four days of being spoiled rotten, allowed to sleep in and being fed lorne rolls for breakfast. It didn’t seem like a bad deal at all, and I was torn between envy and admiring their sly genius.
We’re all aware every family has a designated organiser/itinerary making/hotel booker for plans and these people are the backbone of society. Middle kid has stepped up and I can now happily step down.
Knowing they were being exceptionally well looked after would allow me time to regroup and relax. The house was quiet – maybe a little too quiet. No early morning hairdryers or footsteps charging along the hall landing.
I mean, if you can’t tell which kid is coming up the stairs by the speed and weight of their footsteps, are you even their mother?
If Mrs Hinch had swung by…
I planned to use the time catching up with work and tackling the house.
If Mrs Hinch herself swung past with white gloves on I was determined there would be nothing to find.
There is simply not enough time in a two-day weekend to clean my house AND relax, these four days were a gift.
Anyone parent-reading this appreciates the impact of children on nice stuff. Nice stuff previously cherished and admired becomes stuff that is completely ruined. I was kidding myself; five days was not enough.
Even so, I uncovered the secret behind middle-aged happiness is discovering the final load of laundry I had to fold was just nine bath towels and not 52 pieces of kids’ clothing.
I would spend my time sorting out drawers full of wires and chargers. Attention given to the plastic bag overflowing with plastic bags and reorganising the gift bag full of gift bags, I may even attempt to sort the extensive bags under my eyes.
I’m fully aware I obtain these by staying up late every night. I regret it every morning and then do it ALL OVER AGAIN. My bed is there for me in good times and in bad times – that’s the kind of support I deserve in life, so why do I fight it?
At least I’m safe here during my time on my own, as I determine if anyone tries to break into my house they won’t get far. They’ll trip over the kids’ shoes and die, the end.
The only thing left to concern me now is the awkward niggle I’m not sure if I have free time or if I’ve just forgotten everything.