Proud of my little stunt...

To be fair, part of me would have rather been picking fleas out of a baboon’s *rse…but the other part realises, that as a mother of 4 young children, there are certain criteria on the job description that I have to follow through with, i.e., in this instance, wiping bums. The same ritual occurs, a child backs out of the toilet, bent over double, bum in the air, issuing me with “Mum, wipe my bum!” instructions. I duly obey, replacing the tiny scrunched up pieces of toilet roll they give me, with a large baby wipe, latex gloves, and scrub. Ok, so I don’t actually own any latex gloves (except the secret ones), but it’s a rank task.

I had an extraordinarily hectic meeting people day today. Sometimes, energies must be moving in certain ways, and these periods of time we come across. I met an artist who has moved here from Paris, fascinating guy, he knew I painted and wondered where I had my exhibitions…Err, ok, maybe he thinks I am someone else. So I wonder whether I carry on this façade and pretend to be this artiste, exhibitions globally, but I figure he must realise in looking at, firstly me, and then at our little rented 3 bed in the sticks, and cotton on…I realise that somehow, of late, I have become an in-voluntary supporter and social worker for all these waifs and strays who drift in from big cities, then feel completely drowned by the reluctant, slow pace of a village. I have had Make-up lady on the phone A LOT. I am going to be washing her sheets, and she pleaded with me, I mean asked me to take her with her whenever I could. Just to “Get her out”. What can I say? Look into her panda/Alice Cooper eyes and tell her where to go? Not me, not my style, not because I am patient and forgiving and kind, but because whenever I actually go to say “No”, my tongue goes into spasm, my mind grabs the nearest staple gun and WHHEEERRCHUNK! (Never was too good at shooting noises, ask Monty, each time we play at star wars outside, shooting baddies and droids entering our garden, I do a forward-roll (rather awkwardly) then make “Pitchoo, pitchoo!” noises, looking all GI Jane, well Leia I suppose, and fearsomely proud of my little stunt, Monty disappointed looks over, “Ohhh muuum, it doesn’t go like that”, and proceeds to make the best shooting noises I have ever heard…). Anyway, I was saying, my mind staples my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and I end up always saying (whilst refusing to cry) “Yeeeaaas”. Boo to confidence issues forcing verbal defeat on you, and being bullied by your own body, will I never learn? Back to the in-voluntary “Just moved to Thomas the Tank engine village, and on the brink of a nervous break-down” support group leader, me. I have no idea how I have managed to attract these people, but my life is more the enriched for knowing them (even if it is just my “Getting to know crazy people” list enriched!).

Monty was grey when I picked him up from school tonight. He slumps on the sofa telling me he can’t face any tea, he feels sick. I am used to seeing Monty ‘slump’ after school, and give him some bread and butter, a drink of milk and an apple, and he is back to his old self. I reckon it is just this, and tell him they can have tea early, and he’ll feel loads better. He looks at me, almost begging me not to give him tea, but I insist, as I think it’ll make him feel better. He takes one mouthful, and then projectile vomits all over himself, the table, the floor. But he has made his point, right? Yet again, I have failed my child. Tomato chunks galore, I reflect on my day as I bellow at everyone to “Pull back, get down, get out while you still can!” and drag Monty out at arm’s length in the direction of the toilet, whereupon I plonk him down, in my haste to get toilet-side, I had picked him up around his middle, good foresight that, squeezing him around his post-vomit tummy, my legs nearly buckling under the effort and strain (at 7, he is almost as tall, and as heavy as me, no he’s not big for his age, I am small for mine!). As I reflect, I realise I began today wiping bums, I have finished it off by clearing up puke, I have somehow got an invisible (but only to me, apparently) tattoo “Walk this way lost city people in small village, hello, and well come, and by the way my name is Tamsyn, and I am the leader of the club”. Alright, more of a complete all over your face and neck tattoo with all that script, but more importantly, how did I manage it? This question I have not stopped posing to myself today, and I only hope that tomorrow it will be a different question. Like an “OMG! Where the bleep did I put the effing library books?” Kind of a question. In fact it’s Friday tomorrow, oh sh*t, WHERE THE BLEEP DID I PUT THE EFFING LIBRARY BOOKS??”