Our ironing table lives under our bedroom window. Judging by the dents in the carpet, it’s been in situ for a considerable while now. Circa 2002, when we moved in.
I go through the ritual each morning of lifting everything off onto neat piles on the bed. Piles arranged in order of smallest to largest child.
Anything not needing ironed gets launched into their rooms, to be subsequently ignored and the rest placed into corresponding child’s pile (heap). Garments to be worn that day gets a quick steamy wheech and then every evening I go through the ritual of putting it all back on top of the ironing board. Still in ‘sorted’ piles, which makes it okay in my opinion, although it remains distinctly UN ironed.
I hate the drudgery of ironing almost as much as I hate the existence of this omnipresent clothing junk yard. Its constant reminder of another abandoned chore. I only ever enjoyed ironing the tiny clothes accompanying each baby but now they wear adult size clothing the appeal has been lost.
It was lost just over 17 years ago when I accidentally ironed a line right across my exceptionally large pregnant stomach, I’m only glad my surgeon didn’t think it was a guide line for subsequent C-sections.
Two of my closest friends adore ironing and use it to de-stress. Am now considering if we can all still be friends and new ‘friend application’ forms are being drawn up just in case.
Why do I care enough about my ironing to use it as content for my column? It’s currently 1.39am and I’m typing this on my phone as I can’t sleep. I don’t know why.
Himself came home from late shift and woke me from my habitual spot on the couch where I’d dozed off ‘waiting up’ for him. He’s now enjoying the land of nod as are the three free-loaders and our two hairy four-legged ones. I have no impending deadlines at my paid employment and stresses of the business are no more than usual. I’m not currently dealing with ‘scanaxiety’ or waiting on results and I haven’t any major medical appointments looming. My current cycle of chemo finishes on Wednesday so, by rights, I should be utterly exhausted.
So, what’s the chat Mr Sandman and why aren’t you bringing me a dream?
Aches and pains. General, non-specific aches and pains blamed on nothing more sinister than being (almost) in my mid 40s, carrying too much weight, although that didn’t stop me eating chocolate earlier, and the weather. Horrid, damp, relentless wet weather used by October to announce itself.
The age Billy Connolly warned us about is upon me. The age where the noises getting in AND out of a chair actually come from you. The age where I am seriously prepared to consider creeping to the upstairs bathroom to fill the jug, used for the iron, to fill it with water and self-administer some paracetamol. I remain nothing if not classy.
Trying to run this 1.54am gauntlet without waking himself, the kids or worse, the dogs is impossible. Himself would just check I’m okay before falling back to sleep. The kids wouldn’t care a jot but the dogs? Those eejits would believe this equates to an unexpected Mardi Gras and start a never-ending party. Not in my house. There will be none of that happiness here at 2am thank you very much! Those days are gone.
Isn’t it strange how life comes full circle. I’ve gone from creeping in half cut, past curfew as a teenager desperate not to waken parents to trying not to waken himself sleeping off a nightshift.
Next stage involved softly padding along hallways so as not to disturb sleeping babies to very quickly trying to sneak into the house and not encounter a judgemental teenager disapproving of their parents daring to have a life.
I believed all of the above was behind me yet now I behave like a deranged Wee Willy Winkie trying not to wake the bl**dy dogs….. I’ll give up my notion of some pain killers, they’re in the downstairs kitchen and that’s a staircase-in-the-dark negotiation too far for me.
Who runs the world Beyonce? Definitely not me even in my own house!