Smotherly Love

It’s all a matter of perspective:

For me, fatigue + aches + sleep problems = CFS/ME. 

For the doctor, sleep problems = fatigue + aches. 

Tory Boy is absolutely fine and just needs a regular bedtime and a regular getting up time.  Funny how a child accepts from a stranger what he won’t hear from his parents.  See what happens when that child leaves the care of his doting mother?  Hysteria on the part of the woman who gave birth and lost her waist to him.  I wasn’t gaining a son, I was losing the ability to fit in to a size eight.  Oh, alright: twelve.

My son’s health is of secondary concern to me now that I’ve had the best news I’ve had in years: I’m getting my new kitchen & bathroom in September!  The Hub’s veiled threat to the council to call in the big gun (our MP) obviously did the trick because the prettiest lady and the handsomest man I e’er did see arrived at my house yesterday to give me the news and help me choose colours.

I was walking the dogs when they called and the Hub faced a dilemma: he couldn’t get hold of me by phone so should he send them away or choose the colours himself?  Deciding he would rather live with my displeasure than with broken legs, he chained them to the sofa and was debating the relative merits of speckled over mottled and light beech over dark beech when I got back.  He is my favourite person in the world – after the council’s golden couple, of course.

He was my favourite person, until he started casting aspersions on my approach to housewifely duties: I was washing the floor last night and he asked me why I was bothering when I was going to have a new one in six weeks.  Plaster cast, anyone?

 

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