All of us know at least one of those woman that can do everything. You know the ones. They always look immaculate, as do their children. Their homes are like show homes, the kind that, if you didn’t already know, would have you believe that there are no pets or children living there. They run successful businesses and the P.T.A. singlehandedly whilst also helping out at Scouts. Their gardens could be mistaken for an entry in the Hampton Court Flower Show with their perfectly manicured lawns and impressive bushy bush type things and they are always cheery, for good reason it would seem, I’d be cheery too.
I can barely dress myself.
No really, The Husband recently went clothes shopping for me and did a better job than I ever could.
My house and garden look as though I have two children and a dog. The piles of washing hint at someone missing the necessary skills needed to organize a piss up in a brewery let alone remember to attend a P.T.A. meeting. I cannot cook for toffee and my children tend to look as though nobody loves them. Someone does, I do, but rather than iron their uniforms last night we played Twister hence the creases. We had a right giggle though, the dog got involved, it was funny as a funny thing . . . . You probably had to be there.
I barely function because my head is full of nonsense and I’m ridiculously easily distracted. Oh look, a squirrel . . . . .
I am full of good intentions but forget what I’m doing and will often wander off to go half do something else. It’s the thought that counts apparently?
I decided to find out how, how are these women doing it? I conducted a small survey. (I asked a few folks, those I thought wouldn’t be offended)
Well, it turns out that some have cleaners and/or gardeners and some are just fucking good at juggling everything and are nailing this parent/C.E.O./chef/gardener shizzle.
My favourite response though was from my mum. When I asked my mum how these women manage to do it all and keep smiling, she told me this little story.
My Grandma and Granddad were in the R.A.F. and back then R.A.F. homes were furnished with R.A.F. furniture. Now, one day, a friend of my Grandma popped in for a cup of tea, as you do, and was telling her all about her morning. The lady in question had been giving her house the once over, a more constructive morning you could not have wished for, she’d even cleaned the feet of her R.A.F. issue dresser. Later my Grandma told my mum of this encounter.
“I didn’t even know they had feet” she said.
So, there you have it, it’s hereditary, it turns out that I come from a long line of women with better things to do. Anyhoo, who wants a posh house and a fancy garden? Well, me but I’d rather play Twister.