I think I am in the middle of a hormonal firestorm. I feel like the crankiest cow on earth and I am pretty sure that is what my menfolk think. Some days routing socks out from behind beds and picking up boxer shorts doesn't phase me but this weekend it makes me feel murderous.
Instead of sewing sequins on tutu's, I scrape mud off rugby gear. A house of sports, farts, fights and upright toilet seats. Of course, there is also lot's of laughter. But some days it is hard not to feel like a dobbie! My many attempts at organisation last about 4 days. I think it is time to admit they are cannot be trained, these little men of mine. We won £69 on the lottery, sadly not enough for a housekeeper.
This afternoon was homework. A mixture of tears and procrastination (the boys not me), before any work was done. It's time to cook dinner. I am attempting a slow roast pork that is supposed to taste delicious but the way things are going today, it will proabably taste of leather. My usually successful victoria sponges, refused to rise properly. It really was a day to stay under my duvet.
Tomorrow, I am sure the rain cloud above my head will blow over. I don't have much time for self pity, or I would have full scale pity party. Instead I will patch up the limp victoria sponge and serve up the birthday dinner for oldest boy's belated 16th birthday celebration.
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