I am being genuine when I say I love ironing. Once upon a time it was the element of getting something perfectly flat and smooth and beautifully folded or hung that I loved, along with the smell of freshly ironed things. Now I love the illicit TV watching, by which I mean utter crap I have Sky plussed especially to watch whilst ironing since I would not be caught dead watching it otherwise (my Four Weddings thing started thus), and the yummy smell. Of late I have noticed that the ironing pile is made up of:
- 10% bedding
- 10% DH
- 5% miscellaneous bits and pieces
- 35% DG
- 40% Pocket Dictator
Which is to say that most of the clothes being laundered in the average week belong to the Pocket Dictator and her primary carer (me.) She never last more than a day in her clothes, not because of the nappy explosions that used to occur with monotonous regularity, but because she gets everywhere and consequently gets covered in everything. And as a bi-product, so do I. Take yesterday as an example. When I removed my clothes last night, they featured:
- snot/dribble- where there’s a child, there’s a bodily fluid.
- yogurt- PD is currently learning to use a spoon. It’s not something for the weak-willed.
- mud- it’s been raining, therefore the garden is muddy, therefore the Wonder Hound, therefore me.
- blood- PDs. She fell and cut her lip.
- banana- PD left a special gift on my chair
- chocolate- that was all me.
The Pocket Dictator had a change of tights before the day really started when she escaped barefoot into the garden. She also sported baked beans (lunch at Adventure Kingdom), apple juice and toothpaste, Nurofen and one stain I have yet to identify, in addition to the above. Still, she is trying. Most of the food goes in her hair these days.
(As an aside, this is quite a fun game to play with friends over a bottle of wine.)
(Kidding- I need to get out more *sigh*. )