The Clock Is Ticking

JaneThat's Life0 Comments

In the words of Arnold Schwarzenegger “I’m back.”

I feel like I’ve been sucked into a black hole backward by my hair, experimented on by a bunch of sadistic Martians then made to watch reruns of ‘Dr Phil’.

I reasonably thought that when the girls finished school for the year I would have stacks more time on my hands for Christmas preparation and plenty of time left over to catch up on some blogs.

I mean I would save time taxiing kids back and forth, making lunches, doing homework, sewing on scout badges, yelling for kids to get out of bed, yelling for kids to get into bed and best I stop here or it will be Christmas day already and your dear old Aunt will be sitting at the table waiting on that turkey you haven’t even got into the oven yet.

I forgot that Lulu is an eight year old limpet who needs to constantly interact with me.

“I DO NOT MIND, I DO NOT MIND.”  I’m told that this special time, when they are young and don’t think you’re just an old fart with chin hair, is gone before you know it and that I should treasure every second of it. I definitely do but you get sucked into their world and the the seconds add up to minutes, the minutes add up to hours and before you know it another day has gone and I still haven’t ordered that back scratcher for Uncle Joey.

I don’t do much too help myself though.  I tend to think out loud and suggest things without thinking it through. It honestly didn’t occur to me that making gingerbread men would take the best part of a day?  I could have had them made and in the oven in half an hour.  Come back soon to see photos of that day.

We now seem to be on way to being organised so the panic attacks are easing for now. The girls both want someone over for a play date tomorrow though.

“We promise we’ll clean up mum and you won’t have to do a thing.” I have heard those words so many times and I know that they are genuine but I also know that when kids leave here after a play date the house is a big sticky mess, littered with debris of the day’s activities and suddenly the girls are having attacks of extreme fatigue bought on by the thought of having to clean up.

I know I won’t be able to deny them. I want them to grow up and remember the times they spent playing with their friends in our house. I secretly like hearing kids cry because they don’t want to go home.

In the meantime there’s presents to be bought, cards that need to be written, treats that need to be baked. GO, go and get that turkey ready to keep your Aunt happy and leave me to my panic attack.

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