Somewhere between the ages of 12 and 16, I fell into quite a lucrative babysitting business. I think most of us did, at some point or another. I find myself remembering this tonight, as waiting for bedtime right now feels remarkably like waiting for a mother to return home and save me from her children.
The difference is of course, I’m wearing my pajama pants and no bra, which would have been unthinkable at 15 (no bra? I’d be practically NAKED!), despite the rather large size difference between then and now.
Also if someone else’s three year old had been running around without underwear on, it would have been A Problem, and if said three year old had just hypothetically done a backflip on the couch, simultaneously knocking a mostly drunk cup of tea onto a computer keyboard, it might also have been A Problem.
I was probably a better babysitter than I am a mother, but in my defence, I got to hand the kids back then, and mine have spent the last nine years wearing me down to a tiny little nubbin.
I’m reminded of this tonight, because a) I’m hanging on bedtime and b) I’m vaguely unwell, with something reflux-y and nausea related, which my medication may or may not take care of, but in the meantime I would just like to lay down somewhere quiet and alone. Yet here I am, typing away at the computer, because every time I lay down the flippy three year old jumps on me.
Normally I would happily shout HALF TIME CHANGE SIDES, slapping my unsuspecting husband’s hand as I disappeared off to bed, alone, leaving him with bedtime, but tonight he is Very Unwell, with some kind of vague respiratory thing, which is worse than a cold, but not quite man flu. He’s been wandering around rather like a zombie today, in between our binge watching Mad Men, while I thought Very Hard about the work I ought to be doing, and wasn’t, because see above, weird refluxy nausea.
(I can feel my anti-puke meds kicking in, which is nice, even though they’re probably giving me Parkinson’s, but that’s a story for another time.)
I have two very large markets this weekend, and I am excited about both of them. I have a lot of fun at markets, even though my joints don’t like it, but eh, what can you do? They make good painkillers for a reason, and my joints are one of those reasons.
The Barn Market is on Saturday the 19th (tomorrow), between 10am – 3pm, at The Rosny Schoolhouse, and I will be outside in a marquee, so come and say hello.
The Market is on Sunday the 20th, 10am – 3pm, at The Masonic Temple on Sandy Bay RD (I think it’s number 3, but I’m not quite well enough to change tabs and go and look, but it’s across from St David’s Park and you’ll see the signs.) – I’ll be inside with a small half-table set up, so I’m relying on YOU dear Internet to help me sell out. Okay? Okay. Go team.
Bedtime is in 30 minutes for Evelyn, and sometime thereafter for the older two, but they rarely jump on me, so they get a (small) pass.
Tick, tock.
In any case, it’s an early night for everyone, because market days require me to have left the house by something awful like 7.15am (shut up, I am not a morning person).
Anyway. I really had better go and clean up the baby wipes someone has strewed across the living room while I refused to be a human trampoline, and I should probably check that the older two have actually finished eating their dinner.
Countdown is on.
