Poxy Pox

It started off with just the one… when it got to five and counting I knew that there was something not right with daughter darling. After six years it has finally hit. She had caught the poxy chicken pox.

I encourage daughter to cuddle toddler son in the vain hope that he could quickly catch it and be done with it for good. Day two and I have fellow mothers queuing at the door to get in on the action.

By day four, I am beginning to wonder if toddler may just miss out this time and am secretly relieved. Daughter managed to get a mild dose of it and thankfully hardly scratched at all. Somehow, I was sure that it would not be quite as plain sailing with tantrum toddler son. The fact that he cannot/will not speak would just aid to the problem.

As I waved good bye to the last pox on daughter darlings leg I notice a suspicious pimple on toddlers ear. Grabbing him for a closer inspection , he unsurprisingly doe’s not take kindly to this new found interest and runs to the bedroom covering his head in a blanket.
Without knowing for sure I spend the evening crossing my fingers and toes that I will not be imprisoned for another week.

Worst luck as the morning dawns Toddler son resembles Super-ted's friend spotty. Head to toe , little limb to little limb he has the pox. Typical, of course he could not just have a mild dose, oh no. I take the leftover cream and start dabbing. I begin to wonder if I am hallucinating the spots at number fifty six, then briefly start playing dot to dot on his back. I put gloves on his hands before bed, for him to promptly remove and throw across the room.

Day three and four follow with constant dapping and more glove battling. By day five I am ready to be carted off to a padded cell, preferably as far away from gloves and spots as possible.

To relieve the boredom I send the man to buy some mag’s

“Fancy one with Spot the difference?” I hear him call

Lame. I think while laughing. Very lame.

Ladies Stuff

I hate men. My reason for this is simple, they are not women.

Their bodies do not turn against them every month with an internal cleaning system and as reward for some tipsy Christmas nookie don’t attempt to excreta something the size of a melon out of a hole the size of a five pence piece mid September. So, I hate them.

I felt relieved to find that becoming pregnant would put a halt to the internal cleaning for a while, little did I realise that it would be replaced my morning, lunch and evening sickness. Nice.

Month to month I sail through the year predominantly liking the opposite sex. It’s just for approximately five days roughly around the 8th of each month I turn into what is commonly known as a nut job. From being a totally (well almost) rational, considerate woman I become an erratic, self centred drama queen in the space of 24hours. If I am honest no man stand’s a chance, least of all The Man .

Last night he insisted on asking me what was wrong with me. Never a good move on the 8th. I proceed in telling him just about all that was actually wrong with him including a fair few that were made up. Totally mean and uncalled for, but hey, it is the 8th, it all goes downhill from here. For the next four day’s he will witness all emotions within this body of mine. Tears at adverts, laughter at men’s misfortune, and of course rage at just about everything.

By day five the red mist over my eye’s will have lifted and lovely devoted wifey will return in the nick of time before he leaves with the kids. A few weeks of respite will of course follow just for the whole cycle to start up again.

I should feel guilty for my awful behaviour, maybe even apologise, but for now methinks the best thing would be a bar of chocolate. I might even buy the man one.