Today has been brought to me by feelings of wanting to see the back of my children.
I’m currently ignoring the Small Shouty One who is doing a 40mph pilgrimage around the laundry basket in the middle of the living room. She is going at such a speed that she’s causing a draught and since our central heating is broken, I’m actually developing frostbites.
I asked Spiker on Facebook today if it would be a bad thing to post about what a shit mother I am being today. I suspect since she’s just burnt the motor of her Kenwood mixer, her laptop battery giving up the ghost and her offspring snapping her violin’s string, Spiker isn’t all too concerned about my suburban introspective woefulness.
I’ve also failed to properly instruct Potato Bottom on the art of making meringue. I don’t think by any stretch of the imagine can you call shouting instructions at your daughter in the kitchen from your armchair constitutes homeschooling, no matter how far down the radical unschooling continuum you are.
Despite my browbeating analysis of how perhaps her meringue was too floppy to form peaks for a pavlova, Potato Bottom rises above this and accepted the suggestion that she made a meringue roulade instead. She also took it on the chin when I turned into some World War One housewife on a tight ration and berated her for throwing away the four egg yolks. She didn’t even say a word when I pointed out to her that she had over-whipped the cream.