Waaah.

I’m so frustrated, I could scream. I suspect hormones are actually the culprit, but from where I’m sitting (in the angry seat) it is all the fault of my pesky offspring, who will not let go of my bloody leg. At all. He’s driving me even further round the bend than I was to begin with. There will shortly be no bend left, fer Chrissakes. We will be driving up our own arses.

The Ann that was childless is still there – currently pummelling me senseless in rage, howling that I am just lucky to have him, so stop complaining already. But it’s no good. I am in a spectacularly foul mood, despite the fact that my nausea-tummy-thing finally, finally, receded this  morning. There was actually an awful lot of morning to get through today: Harry decided that 5am was the optimum time for a bit of a sing-song. When the audience didn’t join in the chorus of his atonal la la composition, he began calling loudly for room service. Attempts to distract him from the menu (house left, or house right. No udder milk will do) failed miserably, due to Auntie Beeb not making CBeebies available until 6am. Parent-hating bastards. 

Harry is completely bunged with snot, probably feeling nauseous, refusing any food not totally saturated in… saturated fats, and is clinging onto parental clothing like a particularly determined barnacle, all the time while whinging for Great bloody Britain. You’d think I would be sympathetic… I should be sympathetic… but no. I ran clean out of sympathy about midday. He is being a proper little piglet, and is making me want to bang my head into the wall with a satisfying smack. He is about to be put to bed, and if he doesn’t keep his trap shut when he’s there, I think I shall drive myself down the pub, get naughtily drunk alone at the bar, before summoning a taxi home. Mummy has Had Enough.

When I read this tomorrow, I shall most likely feel embarrassed by my grumpiness. Tonight, I am far too busy: contemplating what weight of hammer would best serve my purposes when I finally snap and attack this wretched PC. There is a loose wire somewhere, causing it to suffer severe cognitive lock up at varying unpredictable intervals and require a complete re-boot. It is also running like A FUCKING PIG, necessitating several mouse clicks of increasingly blind fury and pressure in order to achieve what one leisurely click should do. The letters are appearing on the screen about 8 seconds after I type them – if they appear at all – meaning that I have to go back and correct… and correct… and correct… before the evil contraption locks-up again mid-way through. 3 times so far, just on this post. 3! WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

I must go. The junior dictator requires his bed.

NB. I am about to purchase some more ovulations tests – if the computer sees fit to allow me.

See here:

 http://cgi.ebay.co.uk/PRIVATE-25-OVULATION-PREGNANCY-TEST-TESTS-ANY-COMBO_W0QQitemZ150313729116QQcmdZViewItemQQptZUK_Health_HealthCare_RL?hash=item150313729116&_trksid=p3286.c0.m14&_trkparms=72%3A1298%7C66%3A2%7C65%3A12%7C39%3A1%7C240%3A1318

for some interesting info on high/low sensitivity tests, PCOS, and not peeing first thing in the morning. Or peeing on ovulation tests, anyway. Morning peeing in general is probably ok. Perhaps even advisory.

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9 Responses

  1. I had a day just like this yesterday, and from reading around the blogs I know of at least one other who did, too. The time of year (dark and cold) must not help although hormones certainly rule the roost above all. It might be total public-relations BS but there’s something to that “most depressing day of the year in late January” thing ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_Monday_(date) ).

    Anyway, that’s all a roundabout way of saying I sympathize, and hope today is better for you.

  2. He sounds like he’s being the child of satan. Good job he’s cute looking!

  3. Y’know, I actually HAVE banged my head against the wall at such moments. I freely admit this. My kid won’t let go of my leg after about 5 PM each day – trying to cook dinner is right out – and after he goes to bed I head straight for the wine cellar. (Not that I actually have one.)

    Anyway people make reassuring noises at me about this being a PHASE that will PASS, and so I hereby make them at you….Poor little Harry! I’m glad that you, at least, are feeling better. Soon spring will come and whisk these nasty germs away.

  4. Can I just add, the little bugger screamed his socks off bedtime. The slug of cherry vodka I resorted to merely took the edge off my pain.

    Then I came downstairs to find dog chunder in his basket and spread in the doorway. But no ORDINARY dog chunder. Oh, no. SPECIAL dog chunder. Seems my (insert synonym of choice for STUPID here) spaniel has once again been eating sheep shit, hoof trimmings, and silage.

    Of course, John’s dog is sat there looking as if butter wouldn’t melt, whilst my dunner’d hoond is huddled guiltily on the supernumerary bed that they don’t like.

    Thank God it’s Friday.

  5. Hmmm. A little too much vodka, perchance?

    Re-reading the above, I appear to have implied that Harry has a dog basket.

    Although he explores the locale frequently, Harry does not have a basket of his own. I refer to my spaniel, Tebbit.

    I’m going to bed now. It will all be better in the morning!

  6. Those are the tests I just bought and although the Clear Blue type always work for me those ones just don’t. No idea why.

  7. Ugh. Who knew that the precious darlings that we’ve struggled so hard to get could prove to be the bane of our existence some days? My husband works far away (600 miles) and leaves for at least two weeks at a time. Since he left on Wednesday, my daughter has now taken to sobbing for Daddy when she feels she’s being mistreated. She was doing it in the car on our way home yesterday, and I asked her “Is Daddy here?” She said, “No.” I said, “Then why are you asking for him?” She stopped her wailing then, because it had become obvious that it was a ploy. 2 years old and already manipulative…at least yours is sick. Send the cherry vodka, please.

    My sympathies on the computer issues. I get incredibly overcome with rage when I have to use our 5 year old desktop to scan or print. IT’S SOOOO SLOW.

  8. What can I say? It matters not how much you love the little buggers and how long/how much crap you had to go through to get them. There will always be days that you stand there thinking “What the hell have I done?”. My ploy is always to blame paternal DNA for any particularly foul behaviour. And I seem to remember that cooking chocolate (which I normally Hate with a passion) came to the rescue a couple of times. All part of the rich tapestry that is parenthood.

    Hope today is a better day. Or could I offer my home as a Boarding School for Naughty Babies? It’s only 12000 miles.

  9. Cherry brandy for all please. Has he sunk his choppers into you yet? And pass the hammer when you’ve finished disembowelling your computer. Mine constantly freezes up and then asks me to send special messages to microsoft to let them know about it.

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