Diary of a demented mum: All those warm fuzzies are quickly replaced by the angry snarlings of the Wolverine
YOU really don't get it, do you? Your teenage daughter makes the kind of cute request that sends your nostalgia levels soaring. They're all going to a disco. She wants to buy a new dress with her Christmas vouchers. Will you go shopping with her, Saturday? Plee-ase?
Rocked by a blizzard of warm fuzzies, you say yes. But, you emphasise, you must hit town early. Oh, no problem, she says cheerfully.
Would she, therefore, be able to get up at 7.30am on Saturday and be dressed, fed, organised and all ready to set out by 8.30am, you ask. No problem whatsoever, she says pleasantly. Does she know where her vouchers are? Yeah, she says. Would she please decide what to wear the night before? And have everything ready? Sure! She'll get up at 6.30am and have her shower! She'll even set her alarm clock, she assures you. Maybe there's a sea-change, you tell your husband hopefully. You're deranged, he responds.
Nevertheless. Saturday morning, your alarm goes at 7am. You check the shower. Your daughter isn't in it. You call her. All right!! Jeez, snarls the Wolverine from beneath the duvet.
You remind her about the promised early rise and early shower, and, oh, the early start to get into town, eh, early. She only forgot to set the alarm for Christ's sake, no need for a big deal.
Every nerve in your body is shrieking that you've been had. You refuse to listen. You shower and dress. You hurry downstairs and gobble your breakfast.
The Wolverine rampages, half-dressed, into the kitchen as you finish your coffee. Somebody has stolen her Christmas vouchers, she shouts, her wet hair scattering droplets. She definitely knew where those vouchers were, and now they're not there. She definitely put them into her bedside locker and you must have taken them. Or Dad. Or somebody. That's theft, she shrieks.
You walk to the kitchen cupboard where you carefully placed the vouchers after discovering them under the sofa on Christmas morning. Apologise, you whisper through rigid lips. She folds her arms. Well, sor-ry, she says, tossing her head. She goes off to dry her hair.
It's almost 9am and she's still not ready. You shout at her to get a move on. She's putting on her make-up, she screams back. You defrost the windscreen. It's quite late by now. She can't find her coat. She needs a different scarf. Where's her second earring? Eventually she tramples down the stairs and the two of you scrabble into the vehicle.
You're halfway to town before you realise you've forgotten your handbag. As you pull in and lay your head on the dashboard, a car screeches to a halt beside you. It's your husband.
You forgot your purse, he says.