Dear Sons

Dear Sons,

I am sitting at the kitchen table trying desperately to do my cake accounts.  I say 'desperately' because you are refusing to believe I am 'not here' and keep insisting on telling me 'yeah you are, look, I can see you'.  I have big earphones on.  The big earphones are meant to signify that I am NOT HERE and your dad is now 'it'.  So why oh why do you keep poking me.  He's sitting over there, look.  On the sofa, where he always sits on a fecking Friday,

It's only thanks to T that I am not flt to murder, she gave me drugs.  Yup, your ma is quite happily high as a kite over here.  One xanex and a glass of gin and an hour's worth of deleted accounts that have to re-entered aren't phasing me in the least.  Actually, it's only that high-ness that is enabling me to write you this letter.  If I weren't so calm I'd be halfway to somewhere sunny and far away.

I love you with all of me.  Seriously, I love the bones of you.  But, there's always a 'but' huh?  But, right now, I could happily nail your balls to the floor.  You are young, and I keep reminding myself of this but not so young as to be unable to do a couple of things for  yourselves.  After all you can reach every hidden biscuit and bottle of juice in the house so why in God's name can you not raise your arms 5" to hang up your sodding coats and school bags??  You know you have to hang them up because I made that sheet, remember?  The one that I drew up for each of you and LAMINATED because I was so stressed by tripping over schoolbags, shoes and jackets just casually flung on the floor inside the front door.

Why can't you pee INTO the toilet?  It's a big hole, like seriously???  Also, when you use the last of the toilet roll it's manners to both replace the roll AND put the empty cardboard tube into the bloody bin.  NOT on the floor.  Oh, and if you spit a gob of toothpaste into the sink WIPE IT UP.  You know that kind've shit makes me heave.  

I found something growing in the playroom today, it was making a break for the window.  I don't know what it was but I killed it. Rex and Max, on the other hand, looked too weak to move as they haven't been fed.  Yet.

So, boys, seriously, pick your stuff up or one day you are going to come home to a delightfully clear and Zen like house.  Clear because your stuff will be in the recycling centre.  Given away so that kids, who do tidy up after themselves, can have something to play with.

You are only young but if you don't get it together and learn to stop cultivating life behind the sofa no one will ever EVER let you live with them and that means I will have to move out of home and I like my home.  That's why I want you to pick up your shoes, socks, jocks, Lego (fucking Lego will be the death of me), batteries (also another likely cause of ma death), costumes, shoes, bags, jackets, empty toilet roll tubes, food wrappers (you do know you're not meant to eat in there don't you?) and cups.  There are three of you.  THREE, four including the borrowed boy, yet every day I put upwards of glasses into the dishwasher.  The dishwasher that your father insists on rearranging.  He's a fecker too btw.  I, on the other hand, am utterly perfect.  But only cos I'm every so slightly out of my bin right now.

Lots of love,

Mam x

p.s. When you are old enough to have a partner and perhaps have kids with them NEVER EVER say to said partner when s/he asks you to do something "but it's my day off" 'cos, if s/he is like me, it may well end up being the last thing you ever say.  Us 'homemakers/housewives/gobshites' never get a day off.  E.V.E.R.

Dinner!

I have three young fellas in this house, one auld fella and a Borrowed Boy and they all need constant feeding.  Thing is, hardly any one of them will eat the same as the other.  He loves turnips but the brother hates them.  He likes Shepard's Pie but only Dad's one (well, touch shit love, Daddy's in school) and not mine. Then there is the one, Oscar, who hates the 'meaty part' of Shepard's pie ...?

I get so fecking tired of trying to please everyone that, I am on the verge of buying shares in Brennans Bread and Nutella.  

Tonight we are having Clapshot Pie (whoohooo for my Pieminister book - thanks Aedin for telling me it existed).  I love Pieminister.  Even if they won't give out their Moo Moo Pie recipe.  Still, we all need our secrets, right?

Back to the Clapshot, it's basically a Shepard's Pie with a couple of additions.  Our 'family recipe' Shepard's pie is: Take 800g mince beef, fry it off.  Fry off lots of carrots and one huge onion.  Chuck into the one big pot.  Then you carefully, to packet instructions, mix up a packet of Knorr Oxtail and Veg soup and gradually (chuck it in) add to the other ingredients, simmer for an hour before chucking into a dish and covering with mashed potatoes.  Easy peasy and nowt to it.  

Except.  Somethings changed in Knorr.  It doesn't taste quite the same.  The fact that Himself thinks adding Worcestershire sauce is a good thing doesn't help.  Gross.  Also, he is shite at mashing potatoes.  The fact that he is great at a Roast Dinner and the King of the Breakfast fry ups (Karen G. is the undisputed Queen - her eggs are snow white!!) is beside the point.  His mashed potato sucks.

So, despite Himself hating turnip and no. 1 not being mad on cheese, no. 2  not being keen on either cheese or turnip or no.3 thinking that  turnip is gross and the Borrowed Boy being an absolute bugger to feed at the moment . . . they are all getting Clapshot pie.  Made with Beef, Beef stock, tonnes of carrots and onions and soy sauce before being topped off with potatoes mashed with turnip before being daintily swamped in mature Cheddar.  

And I don't give a shite if they eat it or not.  

I should also point out I am on the verge of throwing out every piece of delph we own rather than have Himself come in in the evening and, before he's even given me a kiss hello, going straight to the dishwasher to open it up and clutch his head in despair.  

Fucker.

p.s. Sooner or later they will realise that Hunger is good sauce! (I remember being told that every time I was given a chicken chop as a kid).  

Right now

Oscar is at a computer class.  Harry is chatting to some mate online whilst he plays Fifa 13 and Arthur is hoping around the kitchen playing Toy Story something on the Kinnect.  I was going to moan about the fact that none of them are interacting with anyone human when I realised I'm doing the same.  Dammit.  Hard to be all moralistic about computer usage when I've spent the last 24 days uploading photos or chatting to you lot.  

And another thing, I know I've been calling everyone by their given names but I kind've miss the 'Himself, meself, him and him and him and billy the dog and boy".  Plus Ger is getting a bit antsy about being er, referred to so often.  Jesus, the things I could tell you that the woman says.  Last night we did our bizarre 'omg, sigh' porn conversation again.  This time though we were talking about the gorgeous film that is 'Miss Pettigrew lives for a day'. If you haven't seen it, go get it out.  It's gorgeous.  It's funny and wonderful and just absolutely perfect.  I had to stay up last night to watch it as the UPC box refused to record it, I really miss Sky.  So, yeah, stayed up watched beautiful, funny movie, Ger watched it too, and then we oohed and ahhhed over the following line: " . . .  no, (I'm not looking for a Social Secretary), I'm looking for you.  I've been looking for you all my life".  Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh. 

Thank you Colette for telling me about that movie years ago.  I still love it.  Still  not 100% sure about 'Next Stop Wonderland' though. x

p.s Dear UPC, Seriously???  I really, really dislike the way you have to practically leave the room before the box will record two programmes.  Why can't you record two things and watch something you have pre-recorded?  Huh??  Our box here is so miserable we have to turn off the tv too and slink out of the room before it will oblige us by recording anything.  ANYTHING!!!!