The 12 Days of Christmas, updated

Toyota asked BritMums bloggers to vlog the 12 Days of Christmas, and there were some super cute entries. My voice took this a a cue to disappear- I’ve been suffering laryngitis for the past three weeks- so all my hopes of being on the small screen were dashed. But after a morning with Dimples, realising that there are three (well, 2.5) days left of school and only 12 days until we go to Prague, I ‘adjusted’ my list and would like to share it with you. Feel free to sing along.

Ahem.

 

On the first day of Christmas, motherhood sent to me:

A week of holiday viewing on the TV. (That reminds me: I need to programme the Sky+ box because I can’t possibly miss what happens in Homeland and I need to see the Downton Christmas Special and everyone will be talking about it on twitter. Although I probably won’t get around to watching it until February.)

 

On the second day of Christmas, motherhood sent to me:

Two children with coughs and colds and the associated disturbed nights’ sleep, ultimately ending in me and one/two (depending on whether they both wake up or if one can be fobbed off with DH) girls sleeping hunker-munker in a single bed along with a dozen or so stuffed toys and a random piece of something that hurts but which I cannot find in the dark in order to eject it and ease my suffering.

And a week of viewing on the TV.

 

 

On the third day of Christmas, motherhood sent to me:

Three lots of medication. Laryngitis strikes every winter, which never fails to amuse the various delivery guys who drop parcels at your door at this time of the year. There’s nothing like hearing someone say ‘pardon’ with a smile for the third time since 8am to make your day go with a swing. Time’s like this you need Gin on hand. Although with the meds, that’s Christmas drinking out of the window. On the plus side, I do have a gift of an excuse if I don’t feel like going out.

Two bunged-up children,

And a week of viewing on the TV.

 

On the fourth day of Christmas, motherhood sent to me:

Four suitcases to be packed. I’m going to need the packing skills of Mary Poppins, since I need to take what amounts to a week’s worth of ski gear to help each child combat the cold, innumerable Christmas gifts, not all of which are travel-sized and the random objects, soft toys and precious things that children of four and two simply cannot be expected to go to sleep without. Don’t get me started on the other members of this household.

Three packs of anti-biotics,

Two snotty daughters

And a week of viewing on the TV.

 

On the fifth day of Christmas, motherhood sent to me:

Five pairs of shoes. LBG seems to be growing like a weed and none of her shoes fit anymore. But with three days left until the holidays she will just have to make do. I am not buying her five new pairs of shoes ahead of the school holidays only to have her outgrow them before next term and need five more pairs. In case you were interested: school shoes, sneakers, wellies, ballet shoes and slippers.

Four suitcases waiting to be packed,

Three little tablets,

Two children full of snot

And a week of viewing on the tv.

 

On the sixth day of Christmas, motherhood gave to me:

Six bags that need carting to the Charity Shop, mostly filled with things I bought from Charity Shops during my ‘upcycle’ phase that have been sitting in a heap that I can no longer bear to look at. Then there are the endless toys with teeny tiny bits that someone in a toy company very far away thought would make ideal gifts for the 3-5 age bracket but which just get lost under sofas, in beds (see number 2) and stood on repeatedly by barefooted parents until they scream “that’s it” and charge to the kitchen for black plastic bags.

Five pairs of shoes.

Four sodding suitcases,

Three who-has-hidden-my-tablets,

Two germ-ridden kids,

And a week of TV viewing I’ll never get to watch.

 

On the seventh day of Christmas, motherhood gave to me:

Seven outstanding internet orders. I tried ordering from an actual shop once but the tweenager who served me was incapable of spelling the word toy, so I retreated to what I know best. At least computers can read. If only they could actually make the bloody products they claim are ‘in stock’. Then I wouldn’t get my hopes up every time a daily ‘update’ email pings into my ‘in’ box. At this rate my poor beleaguered husband will have to make do with whatever I can buy him at the Prague Christmas market on Christmas Eve. I’ll probably run into him there.

Six black bags for the Charity shop

Five pairs of shoes.

Four wheelie suitcases,

Three I-can-now-swallow-them-in-one-go packs of tablets,

Two germ-ridden over-tired children

And a week of TV viewing I’ll never get to watch.

 

On the eighth day of Christmas, motherhood gave to me:

Eight children coming to a Holiday Party on Friday. This necessitates me building 8 little gingerbread houses for them to decorate. And planning, well, more than I have so far planned. And maybe buying some food. If I can get the Charity bags out of the hallway that would be a start. The little darlings will have to climb over them to get into the house, as well as the wheelie suitcases that the girls keep playing dodgems with. Perhaps I should put those on the list of games to play?

Seven orders ‘not in stock’,

The six aforementioned black bags,

& Five pairs of shoes.

Four suitcases that are not as soft as they look,

Three bugger-I-forgot-to-take-them tablet,

Two fighting children,

And a week of TV viewing I can no longer be bothered to record.

 

On the ninth day of Christmas motherhood gave to me:

Nine home-cooked dinners. At least that’s the theory. Invariably I cook and then remember that DH said he might be late (and I just eat Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups until I feel nauseous), or I eat the kids leftovers and have no room for my own supper, or realise that I am supposed to be out at a Christmas event this evening (although that’s a bonus because it all goes into the fridge to be reheated the next day and I look like I have at least made the effort to feed my husband when really all I did was warm stuff up. That still counts though,  right?)

Eight party children,
Seven orders ‘we don’t know when we’ll be getting them in’
Six (nearly seven) black bags for the Charity shop
Five pairs of shoes.
Four wheelie suitcases,
Three more days of medication,
Two germ-ridden over-tired children,
And a week of TV viewing I’ll never get to watch.

 

 
On the tenth day of Christmas, not-paying-enough-attention-at-NCT-class gave to me:

Ten good excuses for not attending a whole raft of Christmas events because I a) don’t have time b) haven’t shaved my legs c) can’t get out of the front door even if I wanted to because the Charity mountain has taken on a life of it’s own, got together with the ironing basket and is spawning love-children at a rate of knots. This whole Christmas thing is totally overrated. On the plus side, they appear top have consumed the suitcases in their love-in, so I don’t have to worry about the packing just yet.

Nine reheated home-cooked dinners,

Eight party children,

Seven-ty black bags for the Charity shop,

Six orders that  ‘will be with you by Christmas’,

Five pairs of shoes.

Four wheelie suitcases,

Three starting-to-feel-better doses of antibiotics,

Two germ-ridden over-tired children,
And a week of TV viewing I should start now as I’m no longer going out.

 

 

On the eleventh day of Christmas what-was-I-thinking-when-I-said_I-couldn’t-wait-to-be-grown-up gave to me:
Eleven hours’ queueing. The rate I’m going I could still be in the line at the Post Office ocme Christmas time. Although at least that means my excuse for not going out tonight is sorted. Honestly, why didn’t I just order it all online? Oh, yes, I did. Out of stock. There’s a lesson there I think. At least there would be, but I think I left the oven on so I’ll need to do this all again tomorrow. There’s still a few postal days left, right?
Ten good excuses,
Nine (OK, I may have nibbled, but you can’t tell) reheated home-cooked dinners,
Eight party children,
Seven-ty black bags for the Charity shop,
Six orders that  ‘will be waiting for you at the Collection Depot when you get home from the Post Office. Meaning another day of queueing’,
Five pairs of shoes.
Four wheelie suitcases,
Three packs of tablets,
Two screaming children
And a week of TV somewhere. Although I’ll settle for seeing the Masterchef: the Professionals Final.

 

 

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my life gave to me:
Twelve Teacher’s presents, and the associated stress of collecting from those who wish to donate, sending  reminder emails, and being furtively handed envelopes in the playground which you quickly stuff into your pocket along with a half-eaten lolly and a couple of hair-bobbles. Of course this  you only remember when you get home and extract a hairy sticky ball from your pocket,so that despite your finest CSI-style work the names that were once written on the envelopes remain forever a mystery, and all this before you’ve even had a chance to think what you might be able to stretch to on the gift front.
Eleven hours queuing,
Ten mediocre excuses (migraine/sick kids/migraine/sick babysitter/still not shaved my legs *delete as required)
Nine takeaway orders (chinese/curry* delete as required),
Eight partied-out children happily carrying party bags,
Seven internet orders that have been dispatched and should be with you between 8 and 8 tomorrow,
Six Charity donations that have made it as far as the boot of the car just so that I don’t have to look at them,
Five pairs of shoes that no longer fit which have finally been put in the attic for when they fit Dimples.
Four suitcases on the bed buried under the piles of stuff that need to fit in them
Three  coloured capsules,
Two sleeping viruses, I mean children,
And a night of viewing repeats of Have I Got News for You on Dave.

 

 

And with that, I bid you good evening.

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