I’m not happy today. I’m tired and grumpy and fussy and fidgety. My poor children who are good children and who behave admirably for children were on the receiving end of my grumps today. Nothing serious, just a general lack of, well, interest.
They were fed and watered and bathed and kissed and cuddled, but no playing. Not today.
I don’t mind telling you that I dislike myself on days like this. I hear myself telling Mr7 that I’m no good at Lego and he’s better off building his emergency rescue boat without me.
I hear myself telling Mr4 that I’m not interested in playing firemen. The boardgames remain in the cupboard. The book that Mr7 and I are writing stays in the drawer.
I wonder if this will be their overwhelming memory of me as a mum. They won’t remember that yesterday they dressed up in their firemen gear and we made a movie together: Fireman Sam and Station Officer Sam and The Great Tent Fire (it’s an action thriller).
They’ll just remember me saying no.
There’s no real reason for my grumps. The usual weight of deadlines/lack of time conundrum. The waiting that seems to have taken over my life. The small matter of a book that needs finishing and just, well, isn’t. None of it their fault.
The trouble with family is that we feel so loved and so comfortable with them that we can be ourselves. The rest of the world gets the best of us. Our family sees the worst. When it is they who deserve our very, very best.
Fortunately, the boys are forgiving types. And I am full of resolve to do better. Which I will.