Saturday morning dream vs reality

I long for weekends.   They are like the little shining beacon at the end of the week long road.    Saying “just get to me and you have survived another five days”.     No 6.30am alarm call to wake me up, but a chance to lie in bed and relax.   In fact I have a vision of my perfect Saturday morning.   A vision I see every week.

It goes something like this

I wake up to a hint of sunlight peeping through the windows, indicating that it is indeed a glorious day outside.   I sit up and and make myself comfortable on crisp white linen sheets.  The pillows are just how I like them.   My Kindle is charged and has already downloaded today’s Times so I can pick it up and start catching up on world events and feel that I know what is going on outside without having to get up and see it.

There is a smell of freshly ground coffee wafting up the stairs.   And also freshly baked bread, just freed from the bread maker that I set off last night.   Ready to made into thickly cut toast, dripping with butter.

A teen has woken early and got up and not only fed the cats but walked the dog who is now lying snoring in a bed in the living room.

The house is immaculate, kitchen tidy, grass freshly cut, the carpets all hoovered.   There are no jobs to do today.   Staff have seen to that during the week and so the day is our own.   After breakfast in bed its time for a nice relaxing bath to ease me a little further into my day.

And then to get dressed in clothes chosen the night before.    Then it is downstairs to join the rest of my family as we sit around the kitchen table and chat about our week, the day ahead even.   We drink more coffee and eat toast, and maybe the sausages delivered by the organic butcher.

We laugh.

It’s middle England at its best.

It’s idyllic.

It’s a dream.

A sodding dream.

This is the reality.

The alarm isn’t set but my bladder knows it is 6.30am and wakes me up anyway.  And daylight is pouring through the window as the curtains aren’t shut.    I try and ignore my bladder and grab my phone off the bedside table.   Notifications tell me I have 8 emails, 11 Facebook messages and 36 interactions on Twitter.   There are also 7 for Google+ but I can ignore them, as I have done for the past week.

I read the emails and swear at the work ones, it’s 6.40am FFS.   Delete the ones from LinkedIn and every other website I signed up to and then forgot my log in details for.

I then spend half an hour on Twitter and declare myself fully up to speed with world events.    My head hasn’t even left the pillow yet and I then begin to wonder when I last changed the sheets.

I dismiss that thought and realise my bladder really does need me to pee so I grab a towel and do that awkward “If I walk properly I will wet myself” walk, and curse not doing more pelvic floor exercises after having kids.

Now fully awake and with an empty bladder I get in the shower, wash my hair, brush my teeth and get dressed.   The clothes are whatever is to hand in the pile on the floor and that isn’t covered in too much cat hair.   Or food.

I wander downstairs and survey the carnage that is my house.   The kitchen as I left it the night before.   Dinner plates stacked, complete with food, next to the sink.   The dishwasher is full of clean stuff.   There is a pile of stuff in front of the washing machine that has been unloaded because it is mine and teen needs the jeans they have put in there.

On the wash cycle that takes 2.40 minutes, not the economy 35 minute cycle.

The tumble drier is now looking after the first load they did.  So the stuff I had put in there is now in a huge pile on a chair.  Touch it and it will fall over, and leave you picking up odd socks for an hour.

The dog sees me and starts jumping up and hitting the door, demanding my attention.

I click the kettle on

And then venture into the living room which is another scene of devastation.   Crisp packets, Coke cans, tissues, cushions on the floor.   And that faint whiff of dog.

I take the dog out who then looks at me for food.

I put the kettle on again and finally make a cup of tea.

The kitchen and living room take an hour to clean and tidy.

It’s now 11am and I have yet to see another soul.   I’m not actually even sure how many teens are here.     The house is peaceful apart from various appliances doing their thing.   The dog unfortunately isn’t snoring but farting.

I have more tea and a bowl of cereal covered in something that pretends to be chocolate but clearly isn’t.

I collapse at the kitchen table and fire up the laptop and start to blog.

Still, there’s always next weekend, hey?

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  • This had me doing knowing nods. not that I have your list of todos. It just reminded me of conversations, nee arguments between my mum and dad, when I was a child. I’ve since spoken to my dear old dad about wife (now ex-wife). The term he gives, it in his Accrington accent is: Division of Labour. i didn’t even know it was a ‘thing’. (see Wikigooglia)

    I think you need to take on the position of Shop Steward, T. ALL OUT!

  • I HATE my dishwasher when it’s full. It’s so often the final straw! See, I’m jealous of your 30 mins on twitter in bed! This morning I woke up dreaming of pancakes – then realised it was because my 4 year old was whispering “pancakes mummy” in my ear! Oh – and we had no eggs. So I went to the grocers in my PJ’s with un-brushed teeth. Yup – I’m a catch! 😉 x

  • Max seems to have decided that he’s my alarm. 6.30am on a sunday morning is a cruel time to have someone jumping on my bed shouting “MUUMMMYYYYYYY”. Just cruel.

  • I guess a girl’s got to dream! It’s cruel that we are the only ones who know how to get the house up and running in the morning…