Shouting
This week has seen me shout. A lot.
Miss P decided to really ramp up her tantrums until I’m fairly certain that our neighbours have social services on speed dial, convinced we’re doing awful things. The girl can scream. Long and loud. Whether it’s because I won’t let her yank everything off the shelves in shops (including a pair of rather dubious fluffy pink slipper boots) or because I need her to come in from the garden because it’s raining. She lets the whole world know she’s not happy.
I try so hard to keep calm, knowing that me getting stressed is completely pointless but let’s face it, it’s bloody difficult some days. When there’s mud on the floor for the third time that day, she’s got hold of a pencil from god knows where and attempted her own version of redecorating or I’ve been pinched just one time too many I do sometimes shout. And then feel guilty. But I’m beginning to understand that guilt is a mothers default emotion a lot of the time.
I shouted when Rich opened a parcel that arrived for me. Not normally a problem but it contained a surprise for him for his birthday next month. He didn’t know and didn’t think twice about it but I shouted.
I shouted a fair bit when we discovered a leak in the kitchen, coming from the pipe to the washing machine. And when we started decorating and had to take down some shelf brackets left by the previous tenant who had, for some reason known only to them, put them up with 6 inch nails and now I have two bloody great big holes in my wall.
I shouted when little dandelion seeds settled themselves into the black glossy paint we’d carefully painted the front door with to smarten it up a bit.
But now it’s Sunday evening. I’ve slapped some paint on some walls in typical Bank Holiday weekend fashion and plan to run to the shops tomorrow to grab some filler for the stupid holes. I’m sipping tea from a pretty mug and have painted my toenails a gloriously girly pink. Things are calming down and tomorrow is another day.
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