As I sit here, writing to you, I am home alone and streaming with cold. I would look well at the Ugly Bug Ball. My lips are dry (last night I managed to smother them in crushed chili via the medium of Nivea) and my right eye (the real streamer of the pair) is red and swollen. Bibsey has told me to stop rubbing it. Who’s the Mummy here?
Oh poor me. Mr B is doing the guardaría run today, and is also out picking up fuel for the fire, so I am home alone. For at least a couple of hours. I love being home alone. Or at least I think I do until the guilt trains powers up and leaves the station.
When I am home alone I want to just to do lovely things like take a bath with salts and essential oils, and my iPad and a glass of Cava. Clearly this kind of lushie behaviour is inappropriate at 9.30am. And it would never ever happen of course. I want to watch rubbish telly and write blog posts and while away the hours on Pinterest and other vital social media activities.
Really I should just go to bed and get some extra sleep and give my eyes a rest for a couple of hours. On the other hand I should turn the dishwasher around and get another pink wash into the machine as well as some clean socks and pants into Mr B’s drawers before there is an international incident.
I am not going to say that I feel I should be doing the floors or cleaning the toilet – although they need attention of course, when do they not? – but surely I should be doing something useful. Or at least be seen to be doing something useful. A well stocked sock drawer is evidence of life being lived usefully isn’t it?
You see? A mother’s guilt is never done. I wrote post about being home alone back in May and it probably wouldn’t surprise you to read that it was also a post about guilt. I even posted pictures of a homemade banoffee pie, not entirely relevant to the post, as if to prove my usefulness.
Right, enough of this. I am off to brew a Lemsip and put my feet up for a wee while. I will not pass Twitter. I will not collect the washing. Honest.
