This Sunday, whilst the the hand print cards and bunches of daffodils are lovely, my longings are a little more complex.
- The ability to control time: I want time for Mothers’ Day. I want time to last longer when it’s that wonderful part of the day after the children are in bed but before it’s the guilty ‘I should turn off Game of Thrones and go to sleep’ time. I want the time I get in a hot shower to be able to go on forever, without actually losing any of my day (or being ransacked by miniature whirlwinds). I’d like to wake up and feel like I’ve slept for days rather than lie awake twitching because through the night I’ve sung one too many renditions of Twinkle Twinkle to the ever-waking toddler. I want the time when my kids
watch Peppa Pig in silenceplay in their blissful innocence to carry on for hours. And the times that cause my ‘FFS’ mutter to turn into a direct hiss, to be over in a matter of seconds. I’d like time to slow right down when the Monsters have their arms wrapped around my neck and I can feel the entire weight of their body totally relaxed in my arms. I want time to slow right down so I can savour the lovely babblings of Monster Minor and the carefree singing of Monster Major. And I want it to hurry the fuck up when one of the little swines is faceplanting the floor and screaming their tits off because their banana wasn’t quite crescent shaped enough.
- The ability to eat anything I please without any repercussions: I want a fat-fuck-off pass. I want to eat anything I choose, because it looks good, because I’m curious about it, because I can. I want to eat white bread, family-sized bars and grab bags. Oh and I want to drink. Prosecco after prosecco, after red wine after red wine. Big, fat, boozy, oozy, creamy, artery-clogging cocktails. I want bar snacks and after dinner mints and dirty burgers on the way home. I want to start my day with several smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels… but proper chewy Jewish bagels. I’ll accompany that with a couple of Bucks Fizzes (though, I’m not too arsed about the orange juice in them). Then I want brunch of Nutella on brioche. And the Nutella will be spread so thickly that my mouth will be totally stuck together. I’ll wash that down with a nice Espresso Martini made with double cream. Lunch would be a fat, greasy, takeaway pizza and I’d actually eat the crusts rather than cast them aside claiming ‘it saves 200 calories’. And I’d dip them in a cheapo nasty pot of garlic mayo, mmm mmm. Of course, there’d have to be a side of garlic bread with cheese. I’d continue to snack through the afternoon on chips and dips. Ooooh and nachos. With shitloads of guac and sour cream. And salted cashews and pistachios. And I’d have some full fat coke and some fizzy vimto. Probably chuck some chocolate into the mix around now – Belgian chocolates and Ferrero Rochers, whole chocolate oranges and several Kinder Buenos. I’d eat a dinner of my Grandmother’s curries – a huge range of the traditional vegetarian ones. But the ones laden with paneer, or dumplings or swirled with cream. I’d have thick, stodgy breads to scoop them up and heaps of carby rice. I’d eat all the pakoras, samosas, bhajis and tikkas and I’d eat everyone else’s portion too. I’d follow that with some hazelnut gelato with some kind of creamy chocolatey liquer poured over it. And do you know what? I wouldn’t feel sick or too full. Nausea isn’t part of the deal. And I’d wake up the next day with a size 8 figure and the health of a… of a super healthy person. And I wouldn’t have the shits or ring sting the next morning either.
- My boobs to shift about 3 inches north
- Someone to teach my children how to be upstanding members of society: Namely, that poo goes in the toilet, lying down when you don’t like something is frowned upon in the workplace, and that sleep and bed is your best friend. This Mary Poppins character would teach them wit and cutting sarcasm, the knack of small talk and the art of intelligent and insightful conversation, and that you don’t order spaghetti on a first date. By the end of it, my boys would be able to do put up shelves that are straight, cook risotto without crunchy rice and be able to sense when Mummy is about to lose her shit and choose to shut the fuck up. If all this could be done whilst Mummy and Daddy are in bed having a Sacha Baron Cohen marathon, that’d be great.
- World Peace
The list is not exhaustive, nor is it unreachable. But just in case you can’t organise those things in 6 days, Husband Dearest, here’s some other ideas:
http://healinghandsyorkshire.co.uk/wordpress/massage/ – the Full Body Massage please
Breakfast in bed, preceded by big cuddles, then a super long shower.