This evening at training, I found myself sitting in the car just listening to the radio, watching the boys train and trying to catch up on reading a few blogs.
I am usually hastily trying to put a blog together myself while Tom is training, it is an ideal opportunity due to the peace and tranquility of my surroundings and the fact that I have to sit in one place for at least an hour but tonight I am organised. I have prepared and just need to fill in the blanks before I can post.
It had turned in to a really lovely evening. I sometimes dread the rushing required to get to training so this evening I was more than happy to just sit, watching the trains go by and with the music on I put my feet up and zoned out for a bit.
By the time training had finished I was completely chilled out. A momentary feeling that did not last.
For you see the disadvantage of listening to the radio for over an hour with your engine off is that when you want to start your bloody car it won’t work. Wanting to smack myself around the head with something heavy for not even registering the fact that this could be a possibility I trudged off to find some assistance. Luckily coach was still putting his balls away, so giving it my best damsel in distress impression I begged for help.
Assuming that someone would have some jump leads, I felt sure I would be on my way in no time. These are men after all, they are fully equipped for all things car related, surely? It would seem not. Perks of having cars less than five years old expect. Luckily the one thing men can’t leave home without is their brute strength. So it looked like it was going to a be a hefty shove down a steep hill, or to be more precise a roll over the grass verge on to the slightly sloping field ahead.
Preparing myself for the mission I suddenly had the fleeting thought that just as I was about to gain momentum I am likely to completely fuck it up, not lifting my foot off the clutch while pressing down on the accelerator, therefore coming to a spluttering halt and before you know it I will be stuck, stationary, in the middle of a very flat, nicely manicured, cricket pitch.
Then the realisation hit me. I am a pro at this. I have had some cars over the years and they have mostly been the clapped out variety, 30 seconds in and coasting nicely over the grass verge I lifted my foot off the clutch and we were away, fist pumping the air as we went. Even Tom was exhilarated, excitedly shouting that we should do a few hand brake turns on the grass while we have opportunity and I have to say I was sorely tempted, only the frown from the green keeper as we flew by arms in air put me off.
Tom is having another growth spurt.
Either that or he is just a bloody pig. I have never known one so small to be quite so hungry all of the time. During the holidays he ate like a horse. I put this mostly down to him being within spitting distance of a fridge but it does not seem to be wearing off.
He is surely of an age now where he should be more than capable of fixing his own, toast, drinks, snacks etc. You know, at least being able to manoeuver around the kitchen without disaster following close behind. This does not however, seem to be the case.
While I do not wish to wait on my children hand and foot and would really like them to show some initiative in the kitchen, and elsewhere for that matter, sometimes it is just bloody easier to do it myself than put myself and everyone else, not least of all the neighbours, through the aftermath of me shouting like woman possessed at the sheer carnage in my kitchen.
The stress of watching Tom just make a bowl of chocolate hoops is enough to put me on blood pressure meds. Only yesterday he dropped the lot, the whole bag slid out the box and on to the work top, then while trying to catch the bag the rest went all over the floor. The worst of it is that he just stands and looks at me like ‘how did that happen’ while I try my utmost not to put my hands around his throat.
So far this week alone he has had an episode with an exploding bottle of pop, laid an open milk carton down in fridge (because of course that isn’t going to leak everywhere), broke a glass and dropped a plate on his, now very black, toe. He takes the last sausage roll and leaves the empty packet in the fridge and the other day I found the butter in the cupboard next to the plates. He has no recollection of even using the butter. Why? Why? The chocolate hoops were the final straw. I am seeking an injunction.
Both Tom and Elsie are growing, soon I will once again be the shortest member of my entire family. I stood next to Elsie the other day, picking her up from a friend’s house and noticed she is a good inch or so taller than me now. In flip-flops (which Elsie hates and I love) I look like the child. Ok, only from behind, granted.
Elsie is becoming very particular about being seen with me, especially if I am not wearing suitable clothing or I have got the dreaded flip-flops on. I do not have issue with this, do you want a lift or don’t you? No one gives a monkeys what I look like to be honest and I rarely get out the car, so forgive me if I don’t change from my sitting in the garden vest, shorts and flip-flops into more suitable attire for chauffering you around my darling.
Monday saw me in a pretty foul mood. I had my period. Not altogether a complete surprise but not entirely expected either as I have had the coil fitted. I had heard that they can take a while to settle and that you may, or may not get bleeding and or spotting, on and off for a few months until it regulates to something more manageable. I was fine with this as more manageable is definitely what I was hoping for. So throwing in the added bonus of it also being a reliable form of contraception, should anyone ever feel inclined to have sex with again anytime soon, I made the decision to go for it.
After years of regular smear tests I was aware that I had a curve in my cervix, lopsided I think it was called once. However my curve has apparently turned in to a corner. On the day it felt more like a sharp bend than a corner, you know the kind that should have a chevron warning sign attached to it.
Making small talk while someone is furiously trying to fight their way up your vagina is not the easiest thing in the world to do and harder still when you know the nurse. I always said I would never work in the surgery where I am a patient for me it would just be too awkward. However staff do move around and one of the nurses that used to work with us now works at my surgery, she is lovely and very good at her job however, this does not mean I want her to see my fanny.
Ideally, I don’t want anyone to see my fanny but I especially don’t want people I am friends with on Facebook to see it.
So while we caught up with the goings on at the both surgeries and talked about our kids and how much time had passed since she left, the lady Doctor in charge of proceedings was furiously burrowing away down below trying to gain access to my cervix and it was fair to say she was struggling. ‘It’s not very straight‘ she declared.
It was quite hard to have a conversation at all to be honest as it was becoming more than a little painful. When she asked the nurse to get an extra long speculum it was clear this was not going to be as straightforward as I’d hoped. How long is extra long? I already felt like I could start letting large vehicles through.
Really? Ok forget the coil, can I just have hysterectomy instead it will be a lot less painful.
It could be said that I swear, quite a bit actually. How I managed not swear while all this was going on I really don’t know. Just at the point where I was about to say, ‘excuse but do you think you could take your arm out of my vagina, it really is becoming a little sore‘ there was triumphant sound from the business end of proceedings as a smiling Doctor appeared through my legs to inform me it was in. Thanks heavens for that.
I’d like to say I didn’t feel a thing but I’d be lying. Congratulated all round for not making any fuss whatsoever (well I am British, it is just not the done thing), I tried valiantly to hang on to what little bit of dignity I had left, while pulling on my big knickers and popping a pad in, just in case.
When I come back next time, it will not be as a woman. I don’t care what I am, as long as I am not a woman.