For the upteempth time I muttered to myself "God, I hate Christmas". I
smiled through clenched teeth and sayed a perfunctory "thanks anyway" after
the person behind the post office counter - that I had queued up at for a
good 20 minutes - informed me matter of factly that they were out of
Christmas stamps.

Just another small annoyance that had accrued into a big fat throbbing
headache this week. "God, I hate Christmas" I repeated to no-one in
particular, and struggled to get Cary out of the shop before he managed to
grab, tear, break or do any other form of damage to their at-child-level
expensive wares.

I got home to find the house in no better state than I left it (funny that).

The migraine wasn't any better, but there was still so much crap I had to
do. Shopping for one. Not Christmas shopping mind you. No, just the regular
shopping, the Christmas shopping would have to wait yet another day, another
day where the crowds would be that much large, that much more desperate, the
parking that much further away, the queues longer, the flies more annoying,
the heat hotter and well... you get the idea.

And so, with the Yowlet screaming about whatever it was that had displeased
his majesty this particular moment, we all trudged back tot he car to fight
the crowds to get simple staples of life such as toilet paper and bananas.

Part way through the shopping, the waves of nausea once again hit me, and I
rushed to the toilets, to discover that they, were, conveniently, locked,
and that the queue at the service desk to get the key was longer than the...
oh never mind, I'll just spew down my pants instead.

"Mummy OK?" said concerned but incredibly annoying voice.

I sighed. "Yes, Mummy is OK" I said, not meaning it, but not wishing to have
any more attention from the source of a large part of my migraine.

I returned to Joel and the shopping cart with my dignity - as well as my
dinner - around my ankles. "How bout you sit in the car while I finish?"

Without a word, I went to the car and tried to lie down to get three seconds
of peace and quiet to myself before the madness descended once more. I
cursed Joel with what little energy I had left "If you could bloody well
drive, I could have stayed home, but noooo no matter how f*cking lousy I
feel I still have to drive you turkeys to the shops" I muttered to no-one
but the rear view mirror. The face looking back was a vague green, with some
vomit in its hair. I stopped looking.

I had just managed to shut my eyes when I heard them coming. The Screams
gave it away. Something about chocolate or a toy or who gives a f*ck that
Daddy told His Majesty he couldn't have. God that child is getting *evil*,
why has my sweet little boy turned into a monster? Bloody Christmas, I
thought, bloody f*cking Christmas, God I hate Christmas.

We return from the expedition, the Kitchen Fairy yet again failing to clean
up the disaster that is my kitchen. I'm gonna have to fire that bitch one
day. I tied to put the shopping away whilst Joel occupied the brat, but my
head can't take the movement. Thankfully this time the sink was nearby and I
take full advantage of it.

"Sit down" Says Joel.

I didn't argue.

But the minute my bottom (which has been suffering gastro as well) hit the
blessed bit of furniture, the bratling wanted me. "MUMMY!!!!!!!" came the
desperate wails of the One Who Is Not Pleased and continued to increase in
pitch and intensity (and pain in my head) till I got up to see why the world
has ended this time.

Rescuing one of the innumerable stuffed toys His Majesty has thoughtfully
flung in a place beyond his reach, I tried to sit back down, only to have
another Urge again.

This time I make it to the bathroom, and decide that to hell with it, Imay
as well have a shower at the same time and try to get rid of the fashion
statement that only spew in the a hair can make. Of course, whilst I'm
enjoying hte hot water, Bratling comes in with me. Fully Clothed.

"JOEL!", I yell.

"I'm busy!" he replies.

Even saying "f*ck* repeatedly doesn't help.

"F*ck" says bratling, clear as day. "F*ck, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck" repeats my
blessed two and a half year old son, in between giggles. "F*ck".

"God, I hate Christmas", I repeat, careful not to actually annunciate my
thoughts this time.

I remove Cary fromthe shower, argue wether he's going to wear a nappy or
not, argue whether its Bob the Builder or Thomas the Tank pyjamas, argue
whether he's going to put socks on or not, and argue....

And oh f*ck, we forgot dinner!

We give the bratling his favourite food, a banana and two biscuits and hope
thats good enough for dinner for him. Yes, I know its very important he get
his 5 serves of vegetables, 3 serves of fruit, two serves of cereal and....
look, I just hand him food that has a good track record of him actually
eating it (which is never any guarantee, what was his favourite yesterday
way well be poison today) and hope to God he actually eats it rather than
feeding it to the dog - or worse the DVD - OK?

And *finally* its bed time. Thank f*cking Christ.

Joel has Cary on chest, trying to convince Mr NO I AM NOT
TIRED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! to shut his eyes and leave us the f*ck
alone, I mean go to sleep. Once I again I think dark and murderous thoughts
towards my beloved husband, who has managed to make it so that he gets to
sit down and watch TV for an hour a so in the evening under the pretences of
"putting Cary to sleep", which is clearly Very Important Work whilst in that
I am expected to deal with what the Kitchen Fairy has skipped out on. Joel
now seems peculiarly immune from the daggers that perpetually shoot from
eyes at that time of night.

I make a half arsed job of the washing up, and thank God in Heaven when I
hear the door of Cary's bedroom close. A sweet half hour to myself before I
finally haul my arse to bed to face another day of pre Christmas horror.

Just then, Joel farted.

"Just f*cking charming", I thought to myself.

Another explosion of noxiousness came out of his arse, and this time, he
waved it over for me to enjoy. "God I hate men, God I hate Christmas, God I
hate EVERYTHING" I thought as I extracted myself to the better smelling air
of the kitchen.

"Meow!" demanded the cat. I am in the kitchen, cat food is the the kitchen,
therefore I am going to give the cat some cat food. QED. Well, thats what
the cat thinks, anyway.

"Oh not you as well!" I said in exasperation. "Fine! Whatever!"

Feed dog (always so pathetically grateful). Feed Cat.

Right. Just have to put the cat food in the fridge, then it really *is* 15
minutes. yes, a whole 15 goddamn f*cking minutes that I can sit on my arse
and just *DO NOTHING* before going to bed.

I opened the fridge to place the can of gooshy food in, and there, right
inthe middle of the top shelf, it stood.

The can of rice cream.

One can.

The whole day collapses on top of me. Suddenly, I couldn't breath well, and
the tears started welling

I ran to Joel, collapsed on his big manly chest and cry my pathetic,
ungrateful, impatient, rude, obnoxious, potty mouthed eyes out.

"Whats all this for?" he said, lovingly, as he put his arms around me.

The tears came harder than ever. I couldn't speak. And instead of pressing
me to explain myself, Joel just made soft 'shushing' noises to soothe me
whilst the tears ran their course.

"You got me a can of rice cream" I finally managed to say.

"Thats because I love you, silly. Merry Christmas"

And the tears started all over again. He'd snuck it in the shopping basket,
knowing its my favourite 'forbidden' comfort food ever. He'd put in the
fridge, knowing that I prefer the stuff cold. And he'd left it in there,
without telling me, waiting for me to discover it in my own time.

I could get pearls for Christmas, you could give me a sports car, or a
luxury holiday, or a mansion, a billion dollars or all the tea in China. But
none would be as good as that can of Rice Cream sitting in the fridge, and
nothing would say "I love you" as much. Its gonna be a good Christmas.