Except it often starts with a "I'm the most tired" dig or the "I will unload the washing machine again shall I?" passive aggressive moan. The sheer anticipation of this most amazing of family time can make us cross, make us think "BUT WHAT ABOUT ME?". We have all been the one scrunching our eyes pretending to be asleep so the other has to get up. We have also all been the one swearing "for f*cks sake" under our breath watching those scrunched eyes and thinking of ways of gouging them in with a Mr Tumble plastic free phone.
This weekend I tried to bake. Again. I failed. Again
There has been no shabby chic hot sausage rolls today. There has been a trip to a shop in the pouring rain to get car seats. Our trip to the park was replaced with a trip to Poundland and there was a heated discussion over when one does the washing of ones clothes one really should take them out of the washing machine and PUT THEM IN THE F*CKING DRYER. Pretty boring. I tried to bake. And again I failed. I asked my daughter if I was a bit rubbish. She said "yes" and "maybe we could try cupcakes tomorrow". Gah!
Happy and quite frankly not giving a sh*t who washed her clothes
I've come to the decision that they only way forward is to accept that the weekend war is just part of the blanket of my life now. That families up and down the country are wondering whose turn it is to take the bins out and who has had the least sleep. It's just part of being grown up, being a parent. A pretty crap part. Like spots when you are a teenager. I'm not going to suddenly be happy getting up at 6am and he's not all of a sudden going to stop pretending to be asleep. So instead of the two hours a weekend I am hugely p*ssed off I am going to focus on the other 46 in which the kiddos eat ice cream, run around like maniacs and hug me till I fall over.