beastly beauty

I had yet another regrettable chat with a beauty expert last weekend. I don’t mind getting things done, waxing, plucking, tinting, blow-drying, I just absolutely don’t like talking about my skin, hair, eyebrows or toenails in any way at all. It only ends in tears.

Good Friday agreement

We were in agreement. Good Friday morning would be spent clearing out the upstairs cupboards and, in the afternoon, we’d head for the Dublin Mountains to get a bit of fresh air.

The kids attempted, as they usually do, to cut a deal. “I’ll go if you take us to Smyths Toy store on the way home.” “I’ll go if you set me up a YouTube account” and, slightly more reasonably, “I’ll go if you bring a picnic.” (I blame myself. Years of supernannying, rewards and behavioural contracts have taken their toll. These guys are intent on turning the tables.)

 After making clear that we were just going, with no addendums or codicils, we busied ourselves with the clear-out upstairs and successfully blocked our ears to any mutinous mutterings.

It was only when everyone was strapped into the car that I realised we weren’t headed where I thought we were.

with great power comes great responsibility

I was picking a pyjama top up with my toes last week when I suddenly thought of when I was a child and the doorbell would ring. Mum would answer to someone selling paintings by someone who did them holding the brush with their toes. I used to feel so bad when she declined to buy any, thinking of the person with no arms (there was always a leaflet left with us, to torture me) whose paintings no one wanted.

 But back to my toes. Why wasn’t I using my arms? I do have two of them. Well, having lived with little boys for the past eleven years, instead of me taming them, they have broken me. Now, rather than bending over and picking up stuff, I take twice the time and do it with my toes. When I recently read the joke “what do you get if you sit under a cow? A pat on the head.” my first thought was “I can’t wait to tell that to someone!” (Yes, while I had my afternoon cuppa, I read Horrid Henrys joke book). And now, when I sit down at the table to drink my tea, if there is a puddle of milk beside my cup I can ignore it and read on, without even thinking of reaching for a j- cloth.

Not only that, I know that Ned Flanders wife, Maud, is dead and if SpongeBob’s friend, Sandy the squirrel takes off her helmet, she will die too! (And that would really upset me.) Sometimes I say "Skillage in the village" and mean it and it’s only a matter of time before I walk across the kitchen floor dragging a perfectly clean t-shirt underfoot, just because. Or the first thing my husband hears from me in the morning is “Long sleeves or short?”

So I have a choice. I fight it and make them use their hands, or give in, put the kettle on and get used to living in squalor.

With great power comes great responsibility.