A wonderful side effect to life at the moment is that my hands are falling to pieces. This has happened to me once before. It was when I worked in a call center and I used to take too many bathroom breaks to avoid my mind numbing job.
I would wash my hand in antibacterial soap at least once an hour and my hands started to crack and dry. I went to the doctors and he told me to carry a kinder hand soap around with me. So I did, and I got a new job and my hands got better.
Now I am a parent I wash my hands roughly five hundred times a day (or that is what it feels like) I wash up lots, I do loads of laundry. When I am at the pub on the bar my hands get washed lots.
My right hand has started to split. Every knuckle has at least two points on it that are split and they are not healing because I use that hand lots.
Have you ever tried to not use your dominant hand? Unless I take a holiday from my life this is not going to happen.
Yesterday I decided that I would not wash the dishes.
I have been repayed for trying to save my poor hands by the fluffy family taking full advantage.
I was rudely awoken this morning, not by the baby, he had already had his turns at two, four and half five, but by the oldest fluffy face. It was nearly half six. He sat at the foot of the bed making a high pitched peeping noise.
He was telling on the biggest fluffy. Our biggest fluffy baby can reach the sink with ease. I had made a roast dinner yesterday. The roasting tin that had cooked a chicken and roast potatoes was being noisily licked at the bottom of the stairs.
I was being woken because the smallest and oldest fluffy was jealous, and he is a massive snitch.
I go downstairs to find that the middle fluffy had decided to try and eat lovely boyfriends wages again. He has developed a taste for money. They tell you that owning dogs is expensive, they don’t tell you that they may literally start eating your money.
The kitchen floor.
The kitchen floor had a new and interesting pattern made up of three different sized greasy/muddy footprints all over it (biggest fluffy can open the back door so he lets them all have a run in the garden if I am not there to do it for them) . Lovely boyfriend’s rejected string beans and sugar snap peas of last night are half chewed and festooned around the place.
The sofa has cutlery, serving spoons and the gravy jug all nicely tucked up in the throw. There is a lovely spitty, hairy film covering all items in question.
So I spend time mopping the kitchen floor, washing up the dishes and sellotaping ten pound notes back together.
The baby suddenly notices that I am not in the bedroom and starts his dawn chorus of loud babbles and shrieks that sound happy half of the time and that he may be being electrocuted the other half of the time.
I rush upstairs to stop his morning chatter waking lovely boyfriend. I pick up my gorgeous progeny and realise that once more the promises made to me on the packets of nappies are made of lies.
I strip the small one down to his nappy. It has a vibrant pattern of happy animals dancing across it. It looks as if it could cope with baby wee. The baby wee has escaped out of the back, front and both leg holes. I silently offer up prayers of thanks to whoever invented baby sleeping bags, as they seem to contain the horror meaning that the rest of the bedding is safe (extra lucky as he was in our bed from his last waking point as I was too tired to be bothered to return him to his)
I am aware that the pile of chewed money is still in a vulnerable place in the house.
I clean my child in record time. The majority of his clothes live in a blanket box in our lounge as that is the most convenient place for them. I look in his room to see what I can put him in. It is a pirate costume.
So I take my little pirate downstairs and deposit in in the jumperoo. My mini swashbuckler begins his daily leaping accompanied by the same repetitive jolly tune, rattling and crashing noises. He carries on his conversation with me, but louder to make himself heard over the extra set of noise that he is making.
The dogs eat breakfast and all go straight back upstairs, get in bed (where I should be) and fall asleep with lovely boyfriend.
I finish sticking the money back together and hope that the bank will be understanding, after all, all of the pieces are still there, only a few dogs hairs got stuck in the sellotape and the dribble will dry.
I make a cup of tea and sit down. I realise that one of the fluffies has found the baby calpol. They have eaten the syringe that has the measuring guide on and makes it slightly less impossible to get medicine into my teething child.
As I bend my fingers to pick up my cup of tea a new part of my finger splits.
As I am about to curse the entire world, my biggest fluffy comes and slides his head under my hand, looks up at me lovingly then cuddles into my feet. The baby looks at me and does a huge, dribbly smile.
Totally worth it.