Suicide hour …..

I am probably one of the least patient mothers that have been put on this earth, but the two things that really make me doubt my sanity, and seriously wonder if I could throw myself under a train, is suicide hour and suicide hour.

The time between 5 and 7pm strikes the fear of gawd in to me.

I think if you are reading this and feel in any way like procreation, can I suggest you come and sit on the couch at mine for the 5 – 7pm shift.

The kids are tired, I am tired.

I want them to eat, get clean, pack bags, check homework, check homework list, realise I have not had the time to bake the dozen cupcakes the PTA has requested, remembered that I have totally forgotten about my 8am meeting, that all I want to do is drink 3 {large} glasses of wine, and get in to bed with an episode of Downton Abbey.

What awaits me instead is two excruciating hours of screaming, crying and hair pulling – and that is just my reaction the two-hour slot.

My kids at this point have come home from school. I have already been trapped inside a car interior with them, and the fighting, arguing, name calling and SCREAMING has been alive and well for a full hour.  I have already considered dropping them in Parow and making them walk home>

I get home – I do not climb out of the car as much as I throw myself to the safety of the floor in the garage.

I have wild fantasies of knocking myself out and being allowed to lie there and sleep for the next 2 – 3 hours.  Imagine waking up from a concussion to find your kids in bed, clean, fed, teeth brushed, and all the school things done.  Give me one of those concussions any day.

Instead, I do not get a concussion, just a graze on my chin, and then two hours of hell and a sore chin.

The hour in the car has already made me somewhat weary of my children.  I start thinking of those fucking happy mothers who are always updating their stupid Facebook Statuses on how happy Junior makes them – and they use phrases like “you complete me!”

At about this point, I have lost all patience and I have started to think awful graphic thoughts of those happy moms.

That being said the two hours does pass at some point – I have realised it does help to lubricate it with some Chenin Kak.

Lately I have realised that the two glasses of wine are a “must have” to be able to get through the “Classic Tales” bedtime story.

I am seriously starting to question the sense in all these stupid stories about the beautiful princess/pretty girl who has a prince fall in love with her at first sight.

Though for reasons of uncertainty cannot recognise her in the stark reality of daylight and needs to go around with a glass slipper to get every wench in the kingdom to try on a shoe.  She is meant to be the “most beautiful girl he has ever seen” but next day, zero recognition.

Am I the only person who finds the prince a bit of a problem?

Imagine spending all that time organising a pumpkin, six white rats and a fairy godmother to work make-up, hair and dress magic in less than 15 minutes, going to a party in glass shoes – which no matter how cute must be hellishly uncomfortable – meeting your prince, out smarting your step mother and your two ugly sisters.

Dancing all night and believing you have met your forever after.

Midnight strikes you need to dash, then as you wake the next morning to the idea of romance and ballrooms.

Your stupid Prince has not the sense to remember your name, where you live, your cell number, or what the hell you look like, so all he has to work with is finding someone to fit in your shoe – I mean seriously what the hell was he doing the entire time you were dancing with him and telling him about yourself?

Really – he remembers nothing!

After all that, the jerk’s only point of reference is the size of your foot?  I think this entire story smacks of a man with a foot fetish, and the inability to recognise people’s faces.

I think you must ask yourself, why is the prince not married before?  Why do his parents organise a dance for him to hook up?  Can this man not organise his own date – what is wrong with him that his parents need to step in for him?  Failure to launch, gay, needy, a mommy’s boy, the village idiot the result of inbreeding?  The options are pretty endless.

This entire story is fraught with problems.

I think the Prince has an undiagnosed case of Prosopagnosia – he clearly has a foot fetish and has the attention span of Dori.  If I was Cinderella I would call that Fairy Godmother back and chat to her about who else was on the market.

In the mean time, I will get back to organising my kids for a bath, and fighting with them to shovel spaghetti bolognaise in.

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