Diary of a demented mum: There's nothing good about the Wolverine's weekend intentions
Published 14/03/2011 | 05:00
It's Friday morning but you wake up feeling scratchy, irritable and strangely unwilling to put up with your family's peccadilloes.
Breakfast kicks off with a demand by the Wolverine for €2 because it's Friday.
She also mentions that she will require a lift in and out of town on Saturday night as she and her friends are hoping to go out -- maybe for a Chinese meal, but definitely to a film.
Transport in and out of town on Sunday morning is also required, because, she explains piously, she's volunteered to help with a coffee morning fundraiser in the local community hospital and she can't help it if she lives out in the middle of nowhere with no bus.
Your husband briskly interrupts the recitation of the Wolverine's social schedule to remind you that he leaves for Mayo tonight, where he's scheduled to spend the weekend at an annual conference.
He shrugs helplessly at your horrified expression.
Your daughter announces primly that it's all in a good cause; she's volunteered to give up her Sunday morning to work for the elderly, after all.
In actuality, you think crossly, all the Wolverine has really volunteered is your weekend.
On top of the housework and the grocery shopping, four hours over the period of Saturday night and Sunday morning will now be spent ferrying your daughter to and from what are essentially social outings with the girls.
You know from past experience that far from sacrificing her Sabbath to earnest good works, the Wolverine will spend the day surreptitiously eating the old peoples' biscuits and giggling in a corner with her friends before arriving home in a black funk because the next day is Monday.
You also realise that it's about to be your time of the month, and it's threatening to be a bad one. Your husband considerately asks what's wrong. You whisper the news. Oh God, he mutters.
The Wolverine's ears prick up. Although she normally wouldn't hear if you shouted right into her ear-hole that she was to hang out the clothes or wash the dishes, she clocks every syllable of your conversation from the other side of the table.
"Jeez," she says, quite cheerful now that your weekend services appear to be assured, "that's so random Ma! I've got mine as well!"
Oh, bloody, bloody, bloody, bloody great, you think resentfully.
Mouth agape, your husband gazes from one of you to the other in dawning horror. There will, it seems, be at least one relieved and happy delegate at the conference in Mayo this weekend.
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