Slave Labour

Hands up if you’ve ever spat the dummy and screamed at your family “I’m sick of being everyone’s slave. Tomorrow I’m not cooking for anyone and you can sort yourselves out”?

I do that every weekend. Usually about 11am on a saturday.

However in my case it goes something more like “I’m sick to death of being everyone’s slave. Tomorrow I’m not cooking for anyone and you can sort yourselves out. Wouldn’t it be nice if maybe one day at least one of you thought ‘Oh maybe Mum would like us to maybe prepare her something instead’ but noooo that never happens because you all just think I love making an entire loaf and a half of toasted ham and full fat cheese sandwiches on delicious refined white bread for you all to eat while I pick at my fruit because I’m on a diet and while I’m at it I don’t feel like doing your washing either and Charlie would you get your finger out of your nose …”. blah blah blah and I do say lots of other stuff but by this stage they’ve all lost interest and are just rolling their eyes as if to say “this is getting so boring, she should change her speech”.

You don’t say that?

Well bugger, it must just be me then.

Happy weekend everyone. Oh and did I mention my kids are on school holidays. Again? And that Rob is away for work? I can’t wait, it’s going to be super fun. But before I go I’ll just check the weather forecast … splendid, rain for the week. Envy me at your leisure!

<After note: As I type this, sulking in my bedroom, I am tucking into one of the kids caramello easter eggs I have stashed in my wardrobe. In my fit of rage I stuffed four pieces of cooking chocolate down my gullet and stormed off in a huff upstairs and straight to the Easter loot. FFS last time I checked I was 39 years of age>