Someone asked me the other day why I call this blog "Worn Ragged." Don't I have only one child? Don't I work from home? Doesn't my husband have a good job? Didn't I think that I actually have it pretty easy?
It got me to thinking.
I started with Gramma in Broadview, who had nine kids, was widowed when the youngest was about two years old, who lived through the Dust Bowl in Saskatchewan in the 30s, who had no running water in the house until the 1970s, who couldn't drive a car, who kept her own chickens, who collected rainwater in a barrel for washing hair and clothes, who had 5 kids fighting in WWII in some capacity or other.
I can't compete with that. Bone-crunching labour, loneliness, fear, poverty, responsibility.
This is what I have for today:
Woke up at 7.55. School starts at 8.30. (Husband under misapprehension that his family was up and around.)
Fruit fly infestation in kitchen and bathroom, making breakfast a revolting experience for all involved.
Only clean pants for Kid are summer-weight formal slacks.
Car is iced over, requires much scraping.
Sunrise hits only partially-defrosted windshield, causing temporary blindness in middle of left-hand turn into school parking lot. Kid gets the first of today's late slips.
Kid leaves mitts, scarf, hat and backpack in car.
Back to the school.
Gently berated for not announcing myself at the school office and hanging Kid's belongings on appropriate peg without having first verified my security clearance.
Email migration at work causes much confusion, lost time; looming proposal deadline gets looming-er.
Kid breaks glasses on way home for lunch.
Dog escapes up the hill, poos on a neighbor's lawn. Neighbor is watching. I have no bags. An awkward conversation and fervent promises take place.
Water on the boil for lunchtime pasta has by this time boiled to nothing. No fire, but one must begin again.
25 minutes before the school bell rings. Lunch now on table.
Lunch now on table is judged to be "gross" by blind Kid, who wants to know how to spell "resuscitate."
Fixing Kid's glasses does not go well. A trip to the repair shop will be necessary.
A ritual phone call, one of several thousand, is made to the school attendance line. They must prepare the second of the day's late slips.
Up the hill to pick up poo. More than one bag required. Back down the hill. Back up the hill. Back down the hill.
Kid pitches fit in optometrist parking lot. His Smarties, given to him by a GIRL, have been left unfinished on the kitchen table. His mother is CRAZY LUNATIC CRAZY for not allowing him to miss another 20 minutes of school while he goes back and eats them.
And where are his school Valentines?? CRAZY LUNATIC CRAZY mother has not realized that there is no school until Valentine's Day is over and has not thought ahead by six days. Kid wishes to have lifetime supply of paper bags in which to stick his head. Oh, the shame.
Kid safely dropped off. Car begins to smoke. Has apparently dumped 3 litres of oil in last five days.
Hello 450 thousand fruit flies. You've been busy!
So: not Depression-era poverty, widowhood and striving in Saskatchewan. But surely enough to wear anyone ragged, right?
Or do I rename this blog "Spoiled baby whinging"?