First a wedding dress, then a maternity dress, now I'm just trying to fit into ANY dress.

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IT’S Yer Man’s birthday this week.

I got him some CDs he was after and a few bits of shite from The Beast (socks) and that’s about it.

I know I should be making something home-made as well, something from the child, with his hand print on it or some poem that I lovingly made up myself but the truth of the matter is, that’s not going to happen.

I’m all out of ideas for hand-made gifts. The Beast is just two years old and already I’m out of ideas. Not only that, I’m out of fucks to give as well.

Bitch Wife has nothing on me.

But seriously, Yer Man and myself have been together for nine years. That’s nine years of birthdays (his and mine) nine years of Christmases. Nine years of anniversaries, of Valentine’s Days.

Then add in The Beast on top of that. Two years of HIS birthday. Of Mother’s Day. Father’s Day. I’m done.

This house is covered in fingerprint pictures and collages of hearts. There are hand prints and foot prints galore. We’ve made butterflies (badly) out of toilet roll holders. We’ve glued, painted, stuck, glittered and framed. We even have a Memory Jar for Christ sake.

Neither Yer Man or I are particularly crafty, so personally I feel we’ve done well to get this far, it’s a wonder there’s anything home-made in this house at all.

Aint nobody got time for that

I could go on Pinterest I suppose and see what other people are making for their loved ones. Vast elaborate projects that require a kiln and years of patience, but like I said, my field of fucks to give is fairly barren right about now.

Sometimes I’d love to be one of those people who can pull an idea out of thin air and produce something beautiful and meaningful in seconds. Other times I’m glad to just be able to walk into a shop and pick up something already fully formed. Don’t get me wrong, I love presents and I love giving presents too. Nothing gives me more pleasure than wandering around town buying something nice for others, it’s just the making it myself thing that I have issues with.

While something homemade is obviously lovely and thoughtful, not to mention mercifully cheap, the agony that comes with trying to decide what to make and then pull it off with a reluctant toddler in tow makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a glue gun.

I think I’ve reached the point in my relationship with my husband where I can say cheerfully ‘Happy Birthday! I didn’t bother making you anything. Here’s a CD I bought at the last minute yesterday’ and he’ll be happy enough with that.

Much as he hands over a voucher for the local shopping centre to me on MY birthday and says winningly ‘Happy Birthday! I have no idea what clothes or other shite you’d like, so go and buy yourself something!’

As couples go, I think we’re fairly well matched. So it’s CDs and socks with other bits of tat thrown in for good measure from here on in.

The Arts and Crafts module of our relationship is over. And thanks be to Jaysis for that.


Meme 2

Yer Man is sick.

SOUND THE MANFLU KLAXON!

It’s not actually flu, it’s a stomach bug, but the klaxon still applies.

There is nothing, no-thing, guaranteed to turn me into Bitch Wife faster than my husband being sick. I just can’t be doing with it.

It’s not so much the illness itself – that he can’t help. No, it’s the pitiful mooning around, the calf eyes, the heavy sighs, the dragging himself around the place. Drives. Me. Insane.

To be fair, he’s not often sick. He’s a primary school teacher so over the years he’s picked up all sorts and has built up an immune system that can pretty much be seen from space.

And usually when he’s sick, he really IS sick. Like the time he picked up a bacterial infection so mysterious that the doctor had to look it up in a buke to diagnose him and then backed away slowly while writing the prescription. So that time I had more sympathy.

But then sometimes there are days where he’s a bit off form, but acts like he’s been disemboweled with a rusty spoon. Like yesterday.

It was a tummy bug, he skipped dinner and went to bed early – that should have been the end of it. But no, I had to put up with the calf eyes and the pitiful glances and the slow heavy tread as he forced himself up to bed.

He miserably wished me goodnight while I inwardly fantasised about beating him about the face with a blunt instrument and burying him under the decking.

meme

What is wrong with me?

Seriously. He’s a great husband. A fabulous Dad. Always full of sympathy for me if I’m ill.

Yet every time he spikes a fever I’m inwardly bellowing ‘Pull yourself together, man’ while mentally planning his demise. Bitch Wife doesn’t even come close.

I reluctantly remembered that whole ‘in sickness and in health’ in the marriage vows yesterday evening, so I decided I better at least feign interest in his imminent death stomach bug. I doled out some Imodium and paracetamol with a fake smile and even took his temperature, while pressing a glass of water into his shaking hands.

“Thanks for looking after me,” he rasped, half dead in the bed. I swear, I rolled my eyes so hard I almost made myself blind.

meme 3

Thankfully he can’t see into my black heart, so he thinks he has a great wife, but he’ll probably cotton on soon when he catches sight of me in a mirror and realises there’s no reflection looking back.

There might be hope for me yet though – I do feel guilty for feeling like this. Not guilty enough to actually DO anything about it? But guilty none the less.

It’s a start, right?

Anyway, I have to go now, Yer Man has put in an order for Tuc crackers and Lucozade to ‘rebalance my electrolytes’ so I have to get to the shops.

I also have to buy a shovel. No reason.