The Pleasure Of Whining

After three weekends in a row, on my own with my entire four and two legs gang, I am officially done. Next weekend the travelling husband will eventually be home, and while he is planning to drag me,(as his partner), to a target shooting competition, I am planning to ditch him along with his daughters. Anyway, I don’t think it is one of that tournament he takes in the high consideration; otherwise, he wouldn’t have chosen me as a partner, considering my average of shot and hit clays.Bad enough my plan of an entire weekend family free has been already ruined by daughter number two gymnastic show; at least I would like to try to save the Sunday off .As far away as possible from my holy loving family.

Last few weeks have been dominated by a rampage of social engagements, not mine of course. I spent most of my time buying presents, wrapping them and driving from a party to another, when not hosting. Apparently, between September and October, there must be a dramatic decrease in the quality of the tv shows with the consequence that people take on a different kind of entertaining activities resulting in a boom of summer babies. All these summer babies then, once in scholar age, will have a birthday parties and here you are in the hottest days of the summer finding yourself nourishing your kids’ social life instead of sunbathing in your back garden or napping. The only exception it will come when it is the turn of your summer baby to have his/her birthday party.That day you can bet a million dollars that the weather will be crap and instead of taking advantage of your garden and the newly bought gazebo, you will have a dozen squicking kids running around your house and leaving sticky prints on every possible surface.
I suppose it is by now no secret anymore that I am among the guilty ones of not having watched enough autumn tv and so one of my daughters is a summer baby too.

This morning, after the alarm clock went off, I killed it with a malevolent pleasure. I dragged myself in the bathroom and then downstairs in the kitchen, skillfully trying to not trip on the dogs that have not left my side since they woke up. Not because of an excess of love for my persona,but because they know that with my coffee also comes their breakfast.
When you get up, and your first thought is “Damn, It is only Tuesday”, it is not a good sign. A sign not perceived by the foster dog who despite all the effort and the training is still not very good on recall. The poor pet just got used to being called by a name, I suppose I can’t ask too much, but I can certainly ask for her not to make me run for 1 km in the shallow water to get her back after she happily took her time wandering around sniffing and chasing seagulls. I am apparently not a great trainer, mainly if compared to big ears german who, instead, successfully and quickly taught her how to snitch food from the counter and the table. Unfortunately, the training has not been completed yet. She still hasn’t learned not to get emotional when told off. If he can snitch and eat a tray with six burgers and a box with four croissants without being sick and without feeling bad about it even after been given out,she instead still pees when addressed with a loud tone. If by chance you are wondering:no,she doesn’t pee on random spots of the house.She pees on my white kitchen rug whose days are counted. No more white after this for sure.

Once back home from the beach, after I mopped the emotional pee of the day and diligently performed my housework, I decided to do some yoga. My writing and reading are behind big time but in a morning like today, yoga seemed the best move. Ideally a good idea indeed, practically a big failure. Clara started to have a dementia attack involving twenty minutes barking at the staircase while the other two, who was finally sleeping on a sunny spot outside in the garden, woke up and after crying randomly along the whole perimeter of the garden engaged themselves in a race from one end of the house to another. They run me over twice and, when in the end Kurt landed with his butt on my head, I declared my yoga time finished as much as their play time. Big screaming mama in action. I unleashed my most evil voice and my most scary threatens because notoriously dogs respond well to verbal threats.Tears of built-up tiredness started to descend on my red by anger and defeated cheeks. The dogs are petrified, they flipped their tails in between their legs and lay quietly on their beds. Mama fairy is unrecognisable and had to admit to being overwhelmed by her own reaction. She is annoyed by her own screaming but as they say: when it is enough it is enough!
Of course when a sleeping force of nature is released you cannot stop it that quickly and so, after this extreme split of personality,(dogs are probably still wondering if I’ll ever go back to their soft mama ), I kept going and did something entirely unprecedented: I whined on the phone with my mom. I complained and complained and complained all over again about how much exhausted I felt,physically and mentally.By the end of the phone call, my mother’s satisfaction was impossible to hide. I made her day! Now, don’t get the wrong idea, she is not a monster taking pleasure from her daughter misery, on the contrary. All her joy was in the fact that I admitted it. I eventually agreed there was something wrong with me. For the first time in 44 years, I said loud and clear that I was not that well and her suspects that I cannot always be in good mood and good health had finally been proved right. She gave birth to a human who can have sad days of hell too.

I must confess that after all that whining I felt much better, lighter and calmer. Being the one who rants rather than always the one who listens to the rant is not that bad……every once in a while.