I am in a perfect rage today. An absolute humdinger of a stinking, snarling, steaming bad mood.
This is really not like me. At least, I think it’s out of character. We’ll have to see what James’ eyebrows do when he reads that statement. Ordinarily I am a bit a naggy cow, slightly chaotic in my approach to life, occasionally neurotic about things, but moody? No, I don’t believe so. I ride on a relatively even keel, I laugh a lot of things off and if I find myself in a grump I can usually talk myself down pretty quickly.
But not today my friends. If I’m honest, this rage was been building since yesterday when, like an utter bell-end, I smashed the side of my head into my parents’ garage door. I know I know I know, the rational argument here is that the fault for walking into the door lies with me, but I blame that smug, yellow tosser of a door anyway.
And since then, not a fat lot has been right. Early this morning, Blake happened to mention that he was not too keen on his new automatic Spiderman toothbrush. HOW MARVELLOUS! I thundered. GREAT NEWS! I bellowed. At which point my four year old cocked his eyebrow, cleared his throat and backed slowly out of the room.
He and his father have since adopted the do-not-make-eye-contact-or-wake-the-beast technique, staying broadly out of my way and diligently applying themselves to some baking while I raged up and down the stairs with no clear idea what the heck it was I was trying to accomplish aside from making my mood clear to everyone between here and Moseley.
Nothing much has been safe today.
I have muttered furiously at James’ laptop. I have sworn at the TV. I have shouted at a bagel, flicked the Vs at the rain, thrown a hair-grip at the wall, kicked the bin and pulled all manner of faces at a toilet in Costa as I contorted myself into some sort of backwards sodding yoga pose in order to prevent Blake from falling down said toilet whilst covering his ears to drown out the noise of the hand-dryer from the neighbouring toilet.
(While I’m on the subject, THANK YOU WHOEVER IT WAS THAT INVENTED HAND-DRIERS, GUARANTEED TO SEND ALL UNDER 5S INTO A WAILING FIT OF WOE.)
And having spent the past 40 minutes gladly crashing the iron into the ironing board and burning the merry sh*t out of a top, I can only conclude that forces are at work here.
These are hormones that we speak of. Of the pregnancy kind I suspect.
I don’t recall them troubling me when I was expecting Blake (again, we’ll see what James’ eyebrows do when he reads that) but they have completely hi-jacked me today. I have been quite, quite batshit. Sorry James. Sorry Blake. I do hope I wake up in a better mood tomorrow because if not I really cannot think what this will mean for my up and coming turning of the ripe old age of thirty bloody two.
So from my brooding little black cloud over here, over and pissing well out.
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