I am absolutely trashed with tiredness.
It’s been a busy few days; the Boys’ arrival, visitors, including a child who gets up four-plus times for the toilet each night, a midnight replay of some Grand Final or other that the Lovely Man simply had to watch.
And for the past two mornings, since the Boys arrived, we’ve been woken up multiple times by small bedroom visitors well before seven o’clock each morning.
Boy B is hitting me!
We want to play PS3.
Despite refusal of permission from the Lovely Man, this was followed shortly by a blast of PS3 muzak at around sixty decibels.
Have I ever mentioned that our bedroom is separated from the TV and loungeroom by flimsy glass doors?
[Damn you, PS3. I never liked your dreadful soundtracks, the way you take over my living area or how wired you make the Boys, and now I like you less than ever. If I had my way I would donate you to a family in India so they could run a lucrative Ps3 café in their village.]
Added to my irritation was that every. single. visitation. was unaccompanied by the knock on the door stipulated by our “stupid” houserules.
So every. single. visitation. required me to wrestle the covers over my top half in a mad panic.
Finally, I gave up trying to snooze and lay in bed, listening to the sounds of kids bickering, visitors chatting, the dog barking, doors slamming and PS3 warfare compete with the softer but equally unsettling background noises generated by inexperienced baristas mauling my beloved espresso machine.
I’m told they call this the holidays?
[Sorry, whinging will cease tomorrow. If I get at least five hours of unbroken sleep.]