I had two epiphanies yesterday while folding 427 loads of washing. Why so much washing? you may ask. We’ve been sick, haven’t you heard? I have been waging a war against Snot, Flegm and Mucus with my old friends Eucalyptus, Tea Tree and Whatever Else May Work. Washing is the Snot & Co War version of ‘flushing out the enemy’.
I have a system for folding 427 loads of washing. First, I sort into 5 piles: Mr D, Little Lion, Blossom, Mumma Nadz, and a Generic pile for all those household items that don’t belong to anyone specifically.
The Generic pile was large yesterday – bed sheets galore, towels, vomit rags, hand washers, tea towels and the like. Little Lion’s pile was also large, him being the original Captain Silver Sleeve when Snot & Co are about. Blossom’s was no more than the usual and Mr D’s pile was actually quite modest, consisting mainly of handkerchiefs (he goes nowhere without one) and the appropriate number of undies and socks for the week he has been under Snot & Co attack. Mine, on the other hand, was gargantuan. A pile of Everest proportions. I was mortified.
It got me thinking, “Why? Why me? I am the schmuck who has to wash it all, so why am I creating it all?”
And the answer came as Epiphany the First…
I too have been coughing and sneezing my guts up. The difference is that while Mr D and LL have been coughing and sneezing and moaning with green goop pouring from every orifice in their heads, every time I am possessed by a coughing fit, I piss my pants. Taboo, I know, but an unfortunate side effect of two babies. The result is that, not only do I feel like crap, I am humiliated, frustrated and wet as well. Stress incontinence indeed!
As I dissected my Mount Everest it was so very clear. Every single pair of underpants I own was in there, including the slinky only-for-special-occasions-no-seams-invisible-silky-smooth pair and two pairs of bikini bottoms that immediately disappeared into my backside which has trebled in size since I last wore a bikini. Every single pair of track pants, leggings, jeans, slacks and pjs were in there too. It begs the question, what on earth was I wearing? Answer: A bathrobe.
It was at this point that my pelvic floor exercises moved to the top of my To Do list and shall remain there until I can cough or sneeze without crossing my legs, bending over, bracing and finally unravelling myself in a disappointed state because all precautions merely ensured a pea-sized wet patch rather than Lake Macquarie. I want dry knickers and that’s final. Surely this is not too much to hope for.
Epiphany the Second came as I, still furiously folding, began mentally penning this very post you are reading.
My name is Nadine and I am a Blogaholic. I think about blogging more than is healthy or natural. I log on whenever I get the chance rather than taking time to do my pelvic floor exercises and if I had an iPhone with constant access to blogaspace, I would become an entirely neglectful mother. My husband is glad for my creative outlet, indeed the other day he declared that “A Nadine without a blog is unbearable”, but I am certain if he knew the guilty moments blog and I share when I should be otherwise engaged, he would be mortified. So, I herewith declare that I will limit myself to one blog post per week (ok, so one blog post per blog that I have going, and that’s only three, so back off!) and I will ensure that my weekly logged-on time does not exceed or come close to that of my weekly ‘get fit’ time, my weekly ‘do the chores’ time or my weekly ‘attend to my family’ time.
I mean, it’s ridiculous, don’t you think? An affair with a blog. Besides, who wants to read about me pissing my pants? Honestly!
What's 'normal' anyway? 