Another Saturday, another £1 in the Swear Box.
Completely convinced now that the childerbeast are trying to kill me by driving me to shout and cuss so much that I have a heart-attack or an aneurism or something.
I’ve failed in my misison to get them to keep their room tidy to a standard that I approve of so I’m just going to have to train myself to accept their lame attempts at tidying (skiddy grundies stashed behind the dolls house / sweet wrappers under the bed etc) or I will put myself in an early grave with the stress of it.
Perhaps I should just shut the door to their bedroom until they leave home.
Must also look into possibility of some kind of Cultural Exchange Programme where they go to live in a Third World country for a week and I have an appreciative deprived and malnourished child here for a week. One who WILL eat the meals prepared for it without moaning and who won’t get a massive cob-on because Asda didn’t have any Moshlings for sale and one who does say thank you and please and not speak to you like you just shat on their bed.
I love and adore my children but I gotta tell you – they’re fucking killing me here!
Thank Christ for alcohol is all I can say.
pictures courtesy of google images