So, all good people have hobbies right? As in, those wholesome people who sew their own Cath Kidston or Liberty print aprons, grow their own mint to adorn their locally sourced lamb, or make beautiful little knick-knacks to bring character to their lovely, little (rather large), characterful homes. Well, I wanna be one. Not that I’m worshiping false idols, but seriously – I wish I was so together and so wholesome.
Soo… after monster major decided ‘no like choonah pata’ and didn’t eat a spot of dinner (little dick), whilst monster minor ate all of it, more besides, then threw up; after a bath time of monster major wailing “No no no no no like O**** (his brother)” whilst I furiously tried to put away some of the epic clothes mountain that had sat there for
two weeks too long; after monster minor had reminded me of my bovine purposes and milked me dry… I decided to try to do wholesome.
I had a bit of sewing to complete for a group I’m part of. After spending too much time untangling embroidery threads, I stitched the word ‘shine’ and felt pretty pleased with myself. I had a hobby – I’m practically a fucking seamstress, I may as well have embroidered the Bayeux tapestry. I HAVE FOUND MY CALLING! WI make way for me!
I stitched another couple of bits, trying to ignore the pain searing down my neck and cursing myself for not finding myself a comfortable sewing position – after all, once I join the wholesome, sewing, yummy mummies crew, they’ll introduce me to the perfect, ergonomic, ethically – sourced cotton sewing stool or something, right?
Then I lost the needle. I LOST THE FUCKING NEEDLE.
Ok, to you (amazingly wise, fortunate and good at contraception) childless folk, this may seem a mild irritation akin to scuffing nail polish or, at worse, stubbing your toe. To those with a toddler and an
infuriatingly mobile baby – this is BAD news. Images race through my mind – of one of the little sods going blind by shoving it into their gunky little eye, or ingesting it whilst trying to eat a pink play-doh pancake and having their digestive tract shredded into a million pieces. I’d get in so much trouble. They’d kick me out of the wholesome, sewing yummy mummies crew! I’d never find out where to buy my perfect, ergonmic, ethically – sourced cotton sewing stool! NO WI!
After shoving my hand frantically down the cushions on the sofa and embedding all manner of crap (literally) under my nails, husband dearest came over to help. And, typically, located missing needle with minimal effort. Bloody shitbag.
Anyway, no one wants to read about one scummy mummy’s attempt to find a lost needle. The moral of the story, however, is this: I will never be a wholesome, Cath Kidston and Liberty fabric apron wearing, mint growing, lamb adorning, knick-knack making, false idol. I can’t even fucking use embroidery thread. I wish I could join the WI, but my attempt at jam includes so much creme de cassis, it’d intoxicate the entire congregation.
I can’t say I’m happy with the above, but at least my children’s gullets will stay in tact. And for that, monsters, you have your hobbieless mother to thank.