Twice a year we have a general clean up service from the council in addition to our normal household waste collection. These collections bring out some strange activities.

There are the people who slowly cruise the streets, checking out other people’s rubbish piles, taking the stuff they think they can salvage (and hopefully not messing up the rest of the pile too much).

There are the people who, EVERY collection, seem to put out half a household worth of rubbish (I’m wondering if they’re actually the same people as above, who get home with their loot and think “Wait a minute - this rubbish is RUBBISH!”).

And there are the ships in the night, the people who come and add their rubbish to someone else’s pile in the middle of the night, so you get up the next morning to find your bag of green waste and cardboard box of old magazines has suddenly expanded to include a broken television, half a dolls pram and a suitcase of moldy clothing.

I’m feeling pretty pathetic this week, no-one has even slowed down to peruse my pile, I guess it really is junk *sniff*.

As a “WOOHOO, NO MORE WORKING AWAY FROM HOME” celebration (with the subtext of “we’ll be living overseas for twelve months without ready willing babysitters, we’d better get out while we can”), we went out for dinner last night.

We chose a “recently lauded with three hats by the Good Food Guide” seafood restaurant (no names …). It was a choice between this place, or Becasse. I had long wanted to go to Becasse but my lovely husband has been there before for functions so I (kindly, I thought) decided we’d go to this other restaurant instead. Big Mistake.

When you’re paying the kind of money a meal at a restaurant at this level costs, service really isn’t optional. There’s no excuse for the experience we had last night. None.

We arrived a little bit early for our booking time - I do mean a little bit, less than five minutes. We were told our table wasn’t ready and seated at the bar waved in the direction of the bar to wait. TWENTY MINUTES LATER I finally had enough of being ignored by all the wait staff who were rushing to and fro doing “busy work” and used my well honed evil eye to force the next one who walked past to acknowledge our existence. He finally asked if we’d been looked after, offered a drink etc. No actually, but now you mention it, twenty minutes ago would have been nice. Eventually we were shown to our table. Only to sit and wait for a further ten minutes while being ignored by the many, many, busy busy waiters.

Way to spoil the mood.

I had to ask for a menu. I am still slightly amazed by that. I HAD TO ASK FOR A MENU. I think between us we’ve had a fair experience of eating in good restaurants and we have never, EVER had to ask for the menu. Absolutely unheard of. And not once did they acknowledge the poor service. Seriously, they could have had me back in a flash, if they’d just said sorry.

I am a harsh critic. I will say, once we actually got a menu and got started, the food was great and the service was … well, enthusiastic if not exactly polished. But for the half an hour it took for us to be acknowledged I will never go back to that restaurant and I will tell anyone who asks not to go there and why.

Tip: $0.

Service fail.

I have a particular family member who seems to view my status as a SAHM to mean I am constantly available to run her errends for her.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not averse to helping when I can, it’s just the assumption that I am here and available at the drop of a hat to do her bidding. Because I have “nothing else on”. Of course.

So when she calls and asks me to go out of my way to do a favour for her, at short notice, and tries to couch it in terms that I should be grateful for being asked to do it - I have to admit my first instinct is to say no.

“Will you come and wait at my house tomorrow for a tradesman to show up (or not)? It will get you out of the house and give you something to do.”

Actually, no I won’t be doing that. Firstly, because believe it or not, I have other things planned. Things that don’t require me to entertain two active children in your house, which is NOT set up for children, during the six hour window the tradesman gave you for when he will show up (or not!).

“Oh. So I’ll make the appointment for the next day then”.

No. Not the next day, not the next week, not the next month. NO.

“Will you be able to pick up a prescription for me tomorrow on your way past my Drs surgery?”

Actually no. No, because I have things on. Things that are not “on the way past” your doctors surgery. And the only available parking is metered and I’m not sure why I should pay for parking to do something for you that I need to fit into a day that is already quite full, while carting my children around with me, putting them in and out of the car, just because you didn’t plan your time better.

When I say I’m not averse to helping, that’s not true. I am averse … because every time she calls me the day before, or the day of and ‘asks’ me to do things for her I remember the last three times she’s offered to babysit and pulled out at the last minute. I remember her demands that we visit her because she can’t be bothered coming here, in spite of the fact that I have to pack up the children and all their assorted paraphanalia including toys to entertain them at her house. I remember every demand she’s made over the years and realise that she has no concept of compromise and is no closer to “growing up” now as she was then.

And suddenly I am really keen to be in Copenhagen already.

Tuesdays are our do nothing, unplanned days. This morning it seemed like a good idea to take the children into the City. There’s a book I want to get and I have a 25% off voucher for Borders, there are a couple of shops that are having winter clearances and I thought it would be a good chance to get some warm clothes for next year, and there’s a Medicare office near those stores and I have receipts to submit.

Of course the trick is get Hugo excited about leaving the house … the impossible dream. He hates going out, especially to the “shops”. So I said, “let’s catch a bus” which seemed like a good idea until I was trying to get a toddler, a preschooler, myself, a stroller and our substantial nappy bag on the bus and THEN scrabbling about to find money for a ticket. He loved it though.

Borders didn’t have the book I wanted.

The stores had no suitable warm clothing (although I was pretty much expecting that).

I forgot my medicare card.

I don’t really understand when it got so difficult to be mobile with two small children. It’s not just the bus, I had a shocking experience at our local shopping centre yesterday and we drove there. I forgot to pay for some of my groceries so had to go back after lugging everything to the car. I’d bought some sushi for lunch (bad idea, even on a good day) and was eating it in the car before we went home. I had too much wasabi and had tears pouring down my face, my nose was streaming … I tried to scull diet coke to stop the burn and THAT doesn’t work … while trying to clean myself up with the woefully inadequate serviette. When I’d finally sorted myself out, a little voice from the back seat asked “Mummy …. are we home yet?”

“Yes Hugo. We’re home. I’ve decided we’re going to live in this car park, in the car, from now on. OK?”.

“OK Mummy” >.<

We are about 2.5 months into this six month stint of him working away during the week, and tonight, right now, I have officially reached my limit. This has been a particularly shitty week, culminating tonight with Hugo waking at midnight with a fever and rigoring. It’s not the first time he’s reacted to illness like this. Last winter was quite bad and involved several bouts of tonsilitis and a trip to the ED at the children’s hospital. This winter hasn’t been so bad other than a frightening episode of croup early in the season.

I consider myself so lucky that my children are generally well, healthy children, other than the usual colds and occasional stomach virus. Nonetheless, when they do get sick it can be really scary. Tonight when he woke up whimpering and shaking uncontrollably I was so scared. I thought it was probably ‘normal’ illness but at midnight, when you’ve got no-one to bounce ideas off, to share the fear with, and you’re the only one responsible, it’s scary. I brought him into my bed where he eventually settled and fell asleep, only to wake shortly after with a high fever, more rigoring and vomit spectacularly in my bed.

I hate doing this on my own … not just the gross stuff, like cleaning up vomit … but the emotional stuff, holding a sobbing, frightened baby and soothing him while inside all I want is *my* mummy to come and make it all better (and believe me, when *I* want my mummy, things are pretty grim).

I really resent all the time he is away from us, leaving me to pick up the pieces and carry on, envying him his full night vomit free sleep, his Tuesday night dinners with his colleagues, being able to pee and shower without an audience. Meanwhile I am here coping (or not) with one child who won’t eat and one who won’t stop eating, juggling bedtimes and trying to give them each some special one-on-one time without neglecting the other, trying to think of fun things we can do and usually failing.

I absolutely don’t know how single parents do this day in and day out without a break in sight.

I know he’s doing this because he’s paid to, and his high paying job means I can stay at home with the children but tonight it’s just not worth it It’s not good for our family and it’s not good for our marriage.