Discoveries whilst on the sick

I'm back to work on Wednesday after almost three weeks off with the hernia horror. Fortunately, the infection seems to be finally clearing up, halfway through my second week's worth of strong antibiotics. So what have been the big revelations of the past three weeks?

• I like work.  Conversation with a three-year-old is a little limited, although my language has probably been a hell of a lot cleaner for three weeks. Also, getting paid is quite nice, whilst statutory sick pay is not.
• Work would have been a lot easier than looking after a three-year-old when one is supposed to be resting. At least at work I get to sit down for more than two minutes without being asked to get up and get someone a drink, snack, toy, teddy, book, clean underpants, tissue or spiky fish. Usually.
• On the other hand, I find sitting down for more than two minutes difficult anyway unless I have embroidery, a book or knitting to do.
• Plus, spending four or five days in a row together with a three-year-old can be good fun when you're not in a rush to be anywhere and have nothing in particular to get done.
• Sunny Sunday afternoons were made for drinking real ale in beer gardens. So I guess I can also sit down for more than two minutes if I have a pint.
• There's always something more important to do than put away the mountain of clean clothes piled up on my bedroom drawers.
• Aftercare for day case surgery is virtually non-existent. There is no such thing as a district nurse in this area who you will ever be able to actually get an appointment to see when you need to because the primary care trust has reorganised services so that everyone has to go to the walk-in centre, which isn't even in this town.
• Not being able to lift anything heavier than a kettle is a metaphorical ball-ache. No, I can't just shift that bag of compost in the back yard. No, I can't dig or rake at the allotment. No, I can't walk to the shop because I won't be able to carry everything home.

Edited to add: Felted bowls! Okay so my first effort is pretty small because I ignored all instructions as to needle size and wool gauge. But it's a bowl. And I hand-felted it in the kitchen sink in hot soapy water. And it's in gorgeous undyed eco wool. This may be the start of a new addiction.

Things and more things

If you haven't already got sick of my moaning, you might gather that Things have been getting on top of me a bit. I'm not keen on Things. I try to keep them to a minimum. Things like financial matters and dealings with bureaucracy and call centres and waiting lists and officialdom and important post and the sort of emails you have to agonise over the wording of. But sometimes they all come flooding in on you. All at once.

At first, I get a bit stressed. Then I get a bit more stressed and start to sigh and swear a lot. Then I resort to list making, cake eating and beer drinking. Then little thoughts start to pop into my mind. Mischievous little daydreams of the things I'd actually like to be doing. Sometimes, the other blogs I read help with the inspiration. It's not that I wish my life was like these people's. But that the blogs I like to read tend to focus on the simple things that provide an enduring source of calm and contentment. I like things. With a small 't'; things like fresh new hawthorn leaves and daffodils, open windows, evening birdsong as the days grow longer, a three-year-old's rendition of Baa Baa Black Sheep (had some ice cream), an old book with beautiful woodcut pictures of rural life, a children's book with beautiful seaside illustrations, an afternoon's digging and raking of allotment soil until it is that elusive, gardening-book phenomenon known as a fine tilth (a great name for a blog if ever I heard one).

I am forming some half-baked plans for things I'd like to be doing this spring. Like going camping in south Wales for a couple of nights so the boy and I can go to the Museum of Welsh Life and explore all the replica Celtic roundhouses and 17th century farmhouses. Like planting primulas in the baskets on the wall opposite my kitchen windows. Like knitting a tea cosy. Like reading some Jane Austen and sitting in the yard doing some Jane Austen-esque needlework. Like eating buttery crumpets. Like taking picnics to the park. Like making a beanbag frog for the little man.

It doesn't matter if I don't do actually do these things. Or if it takes weeks and weeks to get round to them. The potential is enough to cheer me up so I can say a heartfelt 'fuck that' to all the crap.

NIBs*

badly written online divorce service questionnaire... more blood tests required by anaesthetist (does this mean there was something unusual found in the first lot?)... no answer on my query over entitlement to sick pay... rearranging nursery familiarisation visits because of rearrangement of work because of expected op recovery time... boy waking up earlier and earlier as spring gets going... boy has been referred to Alder Hey to see specialist over infected branchial sinus, for which he is no longer taking any antibiotics but it is still gunky... yet another cold, making me cough and sneeze, which is what I think gave me a femoral hernia in the first place... two out of my three new bras are so badly designed that sharp corners at the back fastening are digging into me... comfort eating of such things as fresh white bread and brie...

* News In Brief. And of course, newspapers only print bad news. The good news is: daffodils everywhere... real ale in my glass... it's bedtime... I get to put my feet up after I've had surgery (should I be looking forward to this so much?)

Normal service, including the proper use of sentences and paragraphs, will be resumed soon.

A few 'whys' of my own

Why do I have yet another cold? Because I am surrounded by a magical aura that acts as a beacon to every common cold virus within a fifty-mile radius.
Why is my bank account three-hundred-and-odd quid down? Because I haven't been paid this week. Why? This one's still a mystery.
Why can't I get hold of someone at my union to discuss my (non-)entitlement to sick pay after my operation? Because if I'm not at work I'm with a three-year-old who won't let me have a conversation on the phone without demanding the phone off me and making so much noise I can't hear the other person.
Why did I have to have a rather pathetic one-egg omelette, without cheese, for breakfast? Because I haven't had time to go to the shop to buy bread for toast, or enough milk for porridge, or cheese, or more eggs.
Why have I been stuffing myself full of chocolate? Because I'm a wee bit stressed, and tired, and run down.
Why can't I move in my dining room? Because there's a play tent in the middle of it.
Why did little man get up at 4am? Another mystery.
Why am I typing with one hand? Because the other one is in a cardboard box boat.
Why has the hole in the road outside my house still not been Tarmac-ed over after nine days? Who knows?
Why am I failing to see the funny side? Er...

Pee tests and being prodded

I've been getting an intermittent pain in my lower abdomen since last September. It felt like cystitis but didn't respond to over-the-counter remedies and kept coming back. I have done no less than five pee tests at the doctor's. No infection. I have been prodded and poked. I got sent for an ultrasound because of my polycystic ovaries to check they were behaving. They were. I have taken a course of antibiotics 'just in case'. They didn't help. The next step was going to be referral to a urologist.

Early on Sunday morning I had to get up to pee when I would normally have ignored it and gone back to sleep to avoid the risk of waking little man. He didn't wake up, but I did discover a big lump in my groin. (I know you really want to know all this.) It was somewhat alarming. It felt, to me, like quite a big swelling to be going on down there. I eventually convinced myself it was probably just a swollen gland and something to do with the cold I had (still have). I handed the boy to daddy over a cuppa and went to work.

On Monday morning I spent twenty minutes pressing redial to get through to the doc's and got an appointment for that morning. I was prodded and poked. By two doctors. They agreed. I have a hernia. I have an appointment with the surgeons next week. The doctor (he was quite young and had obviously had a course on being nice to patients) wondered how I felt about the fact I had gone in thinking I had a swollen gland and was going out needing surgery and with the knowledge that my innards aren't as inwards as they should be. Er....um. Afterwards, the thing that upset me most was the fact that I had no-one special to tell for a bit of instant sympathy.

I ate a bar of chocolate in work that afternoon and consumed a bottle of Soave spread over Monday and Tuesday nights. I feel just fine now, doctor.

Downs and ups

The downs: I've waited in all day for United Utilities to come and fit a new gas meter. I even rang up this morning and was told they'd be with me by 1pm. Rang again at about 3pm only to be told I was never booked on their system anyway. Right. Also, it snowed again. And I'm getting another cold. And I can barely afford to get to work. And I need to get divorced and it's going to cost me at least a few hundred pounds. And the boy keeps waking up at six-something. And I feel flabby and haven't had any proper exercise for weeks. And I'm fed up of having to go and feed chickens which haven't laid a single egg between them for at least three months. And I need to do my tax return.

On the other hand, there are the ups. I have my new picture back from the framing shop and my dad has put it up for me. (I do actually have a drill that was the ex's old one but have never actually got it out of the box to investigate its state, but I don't have a garage full of little tubs of variously sized rawl plugs, screws, nails etc that many men seem to have.) It's only a print, but it's a lovely scene of a little whitewashed Welsh cottage amid stone walls and rolling fields. In fact, if this works, it's this one by Pembrokeshire artist Chris Neale. The website comes with a financial health warning if your tastes are in any way similar to mine.

Also, I'm going to start car sharing from halfway to work if I ever get chance to clear my old banger out enough to be able to give everyone else a lift without feeling utterly ashamed of its pig-sty state. And I've found the two bits of paper I need to do my tax return. And it's stopped snowing and most of it has cleared now. And B rubbed my arm when I was having a sneezing fit earlier and said: 'Me feel you better, mummy.' And I'm going to the gym on Sunday, cold or not. And tai chi starts again on Monday. And my chickens are still pretty, which will probably save them from being stewed.

Little man has developed a way of avoiding saying 'no' to me all the time. He has cunningly started to say 'not yet' or 'soon'. I have tried to explain that this means whatever it is we're talking about has to happen at some point, but we haven't quite got that yet.

A funny sort of day

It's the second anniversary of discovering the husband's infidelity. I wish now that I hadn't chosen Boxing Day to snoop on his 'spare' mobile phone, but that was when the opportunity presented itself and my intuition had been telling me for some time that there was something going on. If it hadn't been Boxing Day I would have long since forgotten the precise date, but now I get to remember it every year. Woopee. New year's resolution number one: get divorced.

I had a strange journey home from work today too. Oh yes, I have to work Boxing Day and bank holidays. Anyway, my windscreen wiper jets worked on the way home for the first time in about a week after I topped them up with super-duper concentrated stuff. When I say 'I', I mean the STBE-husband did it when he came over to collect little man. Strange again.  Anyway, there I was experiencing a feeling of pure joy at being able to clean the windscreen (I mean it; commuting in this snow and ice is really getting to me), when I saw brake lights ahead. It looked very much like someone had jumped from a bridge over the M6 about five cars in front of me. For me, it was the first time I've ever done a three-point turn in the middle of the motorway.

I'll be glad when the thaw comes. Yes, the snow is very beautiful and yes it's nice to go out and throw snowballs. But when you have to drive in it, it's stressful. I haven't been able to go the shortest route from my house to the main road because the slope is too steep and my heavy tank of a car's wheels spin too much (New year's resolution number two: keep saving for a smaller car). So I have to drive the long way round in thick snow and slush to get to a junction which is slightly less steep but is on a blind bend. And I still can't pull out quickly because my wheels still spin a bit even when I do it in second gear. Then there's been the non-working windscreen wash jets, which means I've had to pull over on the hard shoulder or go into services a couple of times on the way to and from work just to be able to see where I'm going. All in all, not nice.

Back to Christmas Day. Daddy came over while there were still a few pressies left to unwrap. We all went to see the chickens together to give them a festive treat of boiled peelings. Yum. I cooked dinner, he washed up, which is, in my opinion, a perfect division of labour. We had a very nice bottle of Orvieto. Little man ate lots of turkey and very little else. The little fella hugged his new dolls' house and parked his new Cars (the film) racing cars in the attic and made us green cakes in his new toy food processor. Then daddy left and B and I went up to grandma and grandad's, where he made more green cakes, this time with a little brown in them (chocolate!). Now I just need to quietly remove some of his old toys and take them to the charity shop.

Monster to-do list

I've been feeling a little hassled of late. Too much to do, not enough time. Not enough time to spend pottering about at toddler pace. My bank account likes the fact that I'm working four days a week, but the rest of my life doesn't. I'm tired and stressed and I keep getting colds. Here's this week's to-do list, much of which probably won't get done and not much of which is much fun:

Get some adhesive stuck in my tyres to stop them going down all the time.
Stick my rear view mirror back on.
Top up my screen wash.
Find the right payslip to complete my holiday pay form.
Find the bits of paper I need to do my tax return.
Order some pix from when the photographer came to Jo Jingles.
Change my bedsheets. And little man's.
Check how I'm getting to Manchester for a Biffy Clyro concert on Friday.
Return my library books.
Make a Christmas card list.
Find the slip of paper that tells me when in December my dental check-up is.
Get little man's hair trimmed.
Put some more of little man's old baby sleeping bags and a couple of under-used slings on eBay.
Buy some kind of packaging for the ones I've already put on.
Rearrange a missed delivery of a component of little man's Christmas present.
Persuade the ex to come round with a long ladder and investigate why there are damp patches on my ceilings and walls.
Get the picture I bought on holiday framed.
Get a quote for the removal of my gas fire monstrosity.

Edited to add: Chase up the nursery that was supposed to send me an inquiry form.
Collect another missed delivery from the sorting office.

Edited again to add: Find a new telly as mine is refusing to stay switched on.
Work out how to empty the vacuum cleaner as I accidentally vacuumed up a pair of knickers! (I must add that I have done it before, I can just never remember how.)
Swap plants round in my pots.
Buy an external hard-drive before my overloading laptop seizes up and also back up all my photos.

And again to add: Remember to re-read the book Timeless Simplicity by John Lane (highly recommended), go outside, hug a tree and stop letting all this shit get on top of me.

Going into hiding

I've been feeling a bit snowed under this week with a to-do list full of annoying little tasks, like phoning the tax credits people to say I'd increased my hours at work, renewing my house insurance, having first checked that I'm not being ripped off, collecting phone numbers of nurseries, filling in holiday pay claim forms. On top of that I've had a couple of days of PMT-induced sitting on the sofa going bleurgh and fighting the growing desire to eat the entire contents of my kitchen cupboards. Not that there's any particularly exciting food in them. Not even a biscuit. Also, it's my fifth week of working four days and I'm starting to feel like I actually have a job, although technically I haven't.

Anyway, yesterday I spontaneously picked up the phone, filled in the forms and got on t'internet for all those nursery details. I also tried to work out exactly what free 'education' three-year-olds are entitled to. Of course, this has been made as complicated as possible. The simple answer is that he can have up to fifteen hours a week at nursery from next April. The complications seem to be that he has to have at least three sessions a week (I only want two), some nurseries only offer the free places in two-and-a-half-hour slots and they are only available for 38 weeks of the year. From looking at nursery websites, I also get the feeling my requirement to drop him off at 12.30pm in order to get to work is going to cause problems with their session times and lunchtime arrangements.

So the next task is to phone round and explain that and see what response I get before going visiting. But I seem to have some urgent knitting to do instead. And some beanbags to make. And that cross-stitch embroidery to finish. Possibly even curtains to get on with. Or I could just hide in the laundry basket like my little man until all the hassle goes away:

Up, down, up, down, up, down...

Did you notice how I sneaked in with a post as if I'd never gone away? What do you mean, you never noticed I'd gone! I was suffering from a prolonged inability to post. I have been too busy with my obsession with listening to Biffy Clyro and generally sitting on my arse going bleurgh. At first it was the usual pre-menstrual madness. Then it turned into the during-menstrual madness. Then I thought I was fine. And wham, I got hit with an out-of-the-blue, absolutely unexplained wave of depression. You know, the whole 'Go away; I want to hide under the duvet all day and not talk to anyone' thing. I've got used to these things coming and going predictably (as predictably as polycystic ovary cycles lasting anywhere between 28 and 48 days can be) but this was all out of sync. However, it only lasted a few days and now I'm fine again. Which begs the question: What the fuck's going on?

I'm used to the ups and downs, the lethargic can't-be-arsed-ness and the over-hyped let-me-at-em ness. But this latest was completely unexpected. But also very short-lived. Now, I'm used to my emotions being up and down, that's fine - when you're feeling down you know it will pass and when you're a bit hyper you know you'll relax eventually. I tend to think everyone is like this to some extent (one in four and all that). What I'm not used to is unexpected depression with no apparent trigger that comes from nowhere and fuzzes your brain up so that picking up even just one pair of toddler socks from the living room floor becomes an impossible task. So that, in a nutshell that can't ever fully explain this stuff, is what was going on.

I have other things to say, things about little man's fairly comical development (seeing his left hand and his right hand arguing with each other is quite funny), things about simple living, and working (which I have volunteered to do more of), things about sleeping, co-sleeping and lying awake not sleeping when you should be sleeping, things about getting in touch with your inner teenager. But for now, I've supped some homemade elderflower champagne and have had a day tidying up a rather overgrown allotment, so it's off to bed for an early night.

One of the shittier weeks in the history of shitness

What with little man puking up all over me and the ex's bizarre text mistake and my pre-period fuzziness it's been a weird week.

The puking started in the early hours of Monday at daddy's house. He was sick twice in the night there. I put it down to him being pumped too full of fruit. Or being given juice to drink, which he never gets at home. He seemed fine back home with me. Until Wednesday morning. When he gesticulated for a banana, scoffed it, then brought it back up down the front of my pyjamas. Nice. He was his usual crazy self straight afterwards. But then when I got home from work at eight thirty that evening I found him still awake and saving up his puke for me. Thursday and Friday he was just a little more clingy and subdued than normal. Then as I went to bed on Friday I went in to check on him and discovered he'd been sick again, apparently without waking up. So now I don't know if it will happen again or what is causing it. I would have thought a bug would make him sick more frequently but for less time overall...

Then, on Friday morning, I got The Text. This is a really odd one. It was from little man's daddy and contained the words 'I love you'. I've never really known what happened to his relationship with the woman I found out he'd been shagging about eighteen months ago. But I assumed this text was meant for her. I texted back so he knew it had gone astray. And in a bizarre twist, the ex actually said it was some kind of sarcastic discussion with a family member about a problem at work. Right, ok. It seems such an unlikely explanation I guess it might actually be true, although he's actually quite free to say those words to whoever he likes. It was just very upsetting for me when I'm trying to get over him and it was not my choice to end our marriage in the first place.

On top of all that, my period started on the Friday morning too and I've been feeling really exhausted all week heading up to that. So the house is a mess, many things that should have been done haven't been done and many things that shouldn't have been consumed have been consumed. I also missed my lunchtime nap today because the boy woke up as I got him out of the car to carry him upstairs to bed. And his hair still smells of sick after last night, when I just wiped him up as best I could at half ten rather than wake him up fully to get him properly clean. I gave him a bath this morning but his hair is still stinky in that really special-smelling vomity kind of way.

Still, we made gingerbread biscuits this afternoon. And I made him a paper boat and aeroplane. And we spent ages watching a snail at the park.

Plumbing problems, aka pissing blood (TMI alert)

I suddenly have great sympathy for anyone who is prone to urinary tract infections. I had no idea how nasty they could be. Never having had one before I ignored the initial symptoms - you know, the feeling you need to wee five minutes after you just did and the whole burning sensation thing. So last night I was up at 1.30am with pelvic pain, dashing to the loo and peeing blood. Nice. The only painkiller in the house was paracetamol (brought back memories of going into labour and being offered the crappiest, most ineffective painkillers known to womankind). I ended up watching Supernatural on TV Choice on Demand at 4am whilst pacing around the room. And, of course, any kind of illness is a million times worse at that time of night. I managed another hour's doze at about 5.30am before little man woke up.

I am now armed with: antibiotics, Nurofen Plus and cranberry juice. And I am so glad my family are nearby and my dad was free to take little man out for the day so I could go back to bed. Although I discovered the major drawback to living opposite a primary school: it's impossible to nap during the children's lunch break. Makes me grateful to have a boy. Little girls seem to screech a lot.

So I feel crap but am trying to maintain my sense of humour. It was certainly funny when the nurse asked if I was on the pill in case I needed advice on taking extra precautions while I'm on the antibiotics.

Do not read this

It's pure rant. Stuff I need to send out into cyberspace to stop it going round and round my head.

I moved out of my last home on October 17. I thought little man and I would be at my parents for a couple of weeks. I finally completed on my new home on November 24. I still haven't moved in. I could really do with my own space now. And more than two pairs of shoes. But a friend who has access to a van can't get it this Thursday, as expected, and it looks like it might be next Thursday instead.

I have been decorating, in between trying to spend that thing that some working parents call 'quality time' with little man. I have had heating installed and some new floorings laid. I have had cable connected for my phone, broadband and telly. Unfortunately, the broadband won't set up. A phone I bought online isn't working. Because I have cancelled my old email provider I can't remember where I bought the phone from so can't return it. But I also can't use the free number to phone the cable people to find out why my broadband won't work. And when I tried on my mobile today I was on hold for so long I gave up. I also don't know when my new fridge-freezer will be delivered because notification will be sent to my defunct email address.

My application for insurance cover for the mortgage is currently on hold. My doctor wrote a report to say there was an outstanding issue with a dermatology referral. This is because I showed her a freckle on my foot that had gone all red. She gave me a referral. Of course, the redness went, all was well and I cancelled the appointment rather than waste hospital time. I now have to write a letter to explain this. And I have now changed doctor because I've moved house and am already paying that mortgage.

I got some sealant put in the back tyres of my car last week to stop them losing air. Unfortunately, the garage had to break the locking wheelnuts because I had no idea where the relevant tool might be. So now I have to find some new nuts. The car is also leaking coolant. Although my moving house won't result in any more miles travelled overall, as those looking after little man don't have to go far any more, it does mean my commute has turned into fifty miles each way. That's not as gruelling as it sounds: I don't travel at rush hour and it is motorway virtually all the way. But I do need my car.

STBE husband is avoiding talking to me about Christmas. Instead he texted me to say when he would like to have little man. I texted him back to say I would like to talk about it in person. He texted back in a manner that suggested I was being unreasonable in not simply agreeing. I texted him back a five-part message to point out all the considerations that need to be taken into account: such as little man and I getting settled in our new house, my not having spent as much time with him as I would like because of the decorating, the fact I would also like to see STBEH's family members who are visiting, the fact my shift pattern is unusual over Christmas.... He has still not come up with a time when he is available to talk.

Little man has an infected branchial cyst. It's one of two holes in his neck that won't ever go away. It's only a problem if it keeps getting infected. At the moment it's red, swollen and oozing green gunk and he is on to his second course of antibiotics. He's fine in himself, although he is waking up randomly some nights. I'm not surprised at that as he's a sensitive soul and mummy is rather stressed.

And then there's all the things I haven't been doing which I'd like to be doing: walking, knitting, cooking, planting herbs, talking to the chickens, seeing friends.

I could cope with a few of these things, but all together it's really a bit much. I keep forgetting to take my antidepressants, which probably isn't very helpful. And I think there are only so many bottles of wine and takeaways a person can consume in the name of temporary stress relief. Particularly when 'temporary' is redefining itself.

Preheat your ovens now...

I was going to give you a picture. But I didn't get round to it when they were fresh yesterday and now there are hardly any left. I'm referring to the gooey chocolate and ginger brownie thingies I made from Earthenwitch's recipe. Anyway, believe me, they were gorgeous. Worth nearly blowing up my parents' microwave in a mysterious butter and chocolate-melting incident. I don't have one of those hand-helder blender things meant for soup so I finely grated the ginger instead. And I can confirm it took 40 minutes in a standard gas oven on mark 5.

I also made a lovely sticky tea bread the other day from my new Frugal Food book by Delia Smith. Here's how:

Stick this lot in a pan and bring it to the boil: 150ml water, 150g caster sugar, 110g sultanas, 110g butter and 1 tsp bicarb of soda. Boil for 10 mins but don't leave it or it'll boil over. Take it off the heat and let it cool for as long as your patience lasts. Add 1 large, beaten, egg, 175g sifted plain flour and 1 tsp baking powder sifted in with the flour. Mix. Bung it in a greased and floured 1lb (I know, 450g, I'm mixing my measurements up but loaf tins are designed in lbs!) loaf tin and stick it in a gas mark 4 oven for an hour and a half. When it's cool enough, cut a generous slice and enjoy. It's very portable too for packed lunches/eating at your desk.

I realise I'm not blogging much at the moment. Most of the time I'm just feeling sorry for myself and don't have much to say that wouldn't be a bit gloomy.

An apology

All my inspiration and creativity is being sapped by the pointless anxiety caused by house purchasing. I was expecting to exchange contracts on my new house last Wednesday. It's now Monday evening and it still hasn't happened. And always at the back of my mind is the knowledge that the vendor doesn't really want to move. She is having to move, for some reason unknown to me, but doesn't actually want to leave this house. So I really hope she isn't changing her mind.

I have already visualised little man and I living in this house, throwing open the patio doors to the yard, getting proper storage sorted out for my filing and wool and pile-of-old-clothes-I'm-saving-for-the-fabric stash, strolling round the nature reserve five minutes' walk away on the banks of the Mersey, popping to the little play area just down the road, growing herbs on the windowledge and flowers on top of the back wall. I am eager to get settled, to establish new routines, to find time to see people from back oop north (ie Lancashire) as well as people where I am now.

And for a while now I have been thinking to myself that when I get settled down again I will: drink less, eat better, lose weight, get outdoors more, get a bike seat for little man, find a tai chi class, rewrite my match.com profile and start logging on again...

So although I know I shouldn't worry, because it's out of my hands and it's not a matter of life or death, I still am worried. My chi is not flowing, my aura is not glowing. And I'd like to apologise for that terrible rhyme.

Fed up now

Grrrr. Is it possible to move house without stress and hassle? It's all solicitors' letters, bills, delays, pettiness, paperwork, phone calls, more delays. I thought I might rant about the details, but I don't feel like it now. It's not important; it's just money and stuff, not people. And it will all be over and done with soon. Then I can get on with actually living instead of waiting.

Kicking leaves

Fun in the park today: kicking piles of leaves, chasing squirrels, making piles of sawdust whilst sitting on a perfect toddler's-bum-height log, watching diggers and dumper trucks.

Unfortunately, he is full of snot. I mean a really impressive amount when he sneezes. I have found a plug-in vaporiser refill in his drawer and hope it might help him breath tonight and avoid too much waking up. He slept for about an hour and a half at lunchtime, which is highly unusual, then slept again for half an hour in the car on the way home from grandma and grandad's just before teatime. And he was still tired at bedtime, although he needed a lot of cuddles before going to sleep tonight.

My current stress levels: around 80%. I'm expecting 99% by the weekend, when I'm moving most of my stuff out of the house and moving in with my parents. That will probably then drop to around 70% until it's time to move into my new house, when there will be another brief spike before everything settles down and I will embark upon an idyllic stress-free life of relaxing country strolls, knitting and baking.

What, just, how, what, aaarrrgghhh...

If I'd wanted to be a juggler I'd have joined a bloody circus. As it is I'm more likely to flinch if someone chucks a ball at me than actually catch it. I will be very glad when I am no longer juggling house moving, mortgage obtaining, insurance interviews and attempting to offload possessions which won't fit in my new home with all the usual stuff like looking after my boy, earning the means to live in our capitalist society, buying the occasional item of fresh food and keeping my car tyres pumped up. I have visions of my beautifully simple future life in my beautifully-but-cheaply spruced-up new little house.

However, today has gone so far into the realms of surreality that I cannot actually be stressed about it. Just bewildered. The STBE in-laws came to do a job in the loft that STBE husband said needed doing. FIL apparently did it and they went. Twenty minutes later they were back. He had forgotten to do something. He had also left his glasses behind. He did the something he had forgotten to do, got his glasses and they left. Some time later... maybe half an hour?... they returned. Yes, for a third visit. I think there may have been a conversation with STBEH in which it turned out FIL hadn't done what STBEH wanted him to do. So FIL went back into the loft and did something else. By now it is 6pm. Wind-down time. A bit of TV, milk, bath, bedtime books. ILs left at 7.15. I finally settled little man down by 8pm by snuggling up in my bed with him until he was fast asleep then moving him to his cot. Which has left it a bit late to think about doing some packing in the back bedroom/junk room, which is what I was going to do tonight.

All I can say is: WTF?