The morning started with such promise, as all days where everything turns to shit are wont to do. I had spent the previous evening making lists and checking them twice a la Santa with the use of brightly coloured pens and stickers. Yes I had discovered Bullet Journals.
To the uninitiated, Bullet Journalling is a system created by Ryder Carroll, a digital product designer from New York, that allows you to quickly organise and prioritise your life. It’s amazingly simple, yet as soon as you look at the huge community that’s built up around it, you can see examples of just how intricate and elaborate the journals can be.
I appreciate that this is not a new phenomenon, as usual I’ve arrived late to the party and not in the good way. Not:
Hostess: Oh look! It’s Sarah! Turn the music up and get the cling film off the dips, the party’s started!
Me (walking in nonchalantly & swiping a blini, supremely confident and styled to perfection): S’up?
More like…arriving to see a few streamers blowing across the dance floor, empty plastic cups rolling along the trestle table and a couple in the corner oblivious to the party’se nd, slowly exploring how much flesh they can expose while remaining on this side of the law…late to the party.
Back to this morning, the children were trying to find clothes suitable for the school’s themed dress up day that we’d been given less than 24 hours notice about. Cue accusations of theft, sabotage and malice aforethought amongst the three oldest. No. 4 immediately understood that I would need to divert my attention from his every demand and do some actual parenting of his siblings so of course he ramped up his volume to eye watering.
This is how I managed to find myself with 3 children clutching ill-fitting T-shirts with a 4th hanging from my legs screaming “Grandpa!” at 7:45 am with not one of my daily tasks complete.
Has he seen him in the last 2 months? No.
Had we spoken abut him in any way? Nope.
I think it may have something to do with the ladder to the bunk-bed but your guess is as good as mine beyond this point. Maybe he’d seen Grandpa climbing a ladder or maybe he thought he was hiding in the top-most bunk, waiting for the right moment to leap out shouting “Surprise!”. Whatever, it pays not to linger on the logic of a 2 year old for too long.
The root cause of distress in the other three seemed to be a missing top that meant No. 1 had co-opted No.2’s top and this had filtered down to No.3 trying and failing to fit in a top that would be more at home on No.4.
I hate themed dress up days.
With a calm efficiency, I emptied every drawer of clothes onto the floor into a heap rivalling the EU butter mountains of yore, yet still the elusive item of clothing remained hidden.
There was no other option but an emergency dash to the supermarket. I wrestled No.4 into his car seat and jumped in the front and waited for the others to catch up. And I waited. After 3 minutes the wail of “It’s alright now” carried out the front door and a moment later my husbands head popped out.
It’s at this point that I realised what love truly is. Most people would have thought “What the fuck?” but no, he thought “Could this situation be improved with caffeine?”. Moments later he returns with a cup of coffee for me and I sit, in the car, with a 2 year old playing happily and I drink a cup of coffee.
And the good news? I’d put organising the children’s clothes on my monthly log so now I’m able to tick off that job.