I came THIS close to wrapping up a tin of tuna as a Christmas present for one of the cats yesterday. That’s how ridiculous things have got. All of our animals get a Christmas present, but one of our cats is exceptionally fussy and tuna was the only thing I know she goes mad for. I seriously had to stop myself.
Yes, “The Big Wrap” took place. (I was convinced I’d hardly got my daughter much at all this year. However, once I’d actually put together the bits and bobs I’d been accumulating for her over the past month or two, the mountain of festively wrapped goodies told a very different story. Oops.)
At first the task was lovely and festive. I lit the coal fire, had Christmas tunes on the telly, had all my wrapping paper ready and sticky tape IN A DISPENSER thank you very much, and off I went.
Now there was me thinking that taking Grace out the way to Grandma’s would mean that getting everything wrapped up would be a doddle. I forgot about cat number 2, Winnie. Turns out trying to wrap gifts with a brain damaged, deaf feline is trickier than I’d imagined. Every time wrapping paper was unrolled it was dived on gleefully, and immediately shredded by Whinnies who sprang from no-where. Ribbon was batted incessantly, and tags were stolen and chewed up. Being deaf, shouting or hissing at her is obviously futile, so at the vet’s advice, we’d been using a water spray as a means of behaviour control.
The end result was soggy wrapping; a mental cat tangled up in red ribbon, shredded paper and shredded nerves. I did not feel quite so festive by the end of it.
Not 24 hours later and I have broken my toe. Winnie’s fault. With my arms full of a thrashing toddler having a tantrum and no chance of managing a water spray too, I tried to separate a cat fight between my two precious fur babies by basically, booting one of them out the way before they killed each other. Sadly, due to the little one screaming down my lug hole, my aim was poor and the end result was a hard kick straight into the corner of the stair post, with only a thin sock for protection.
If it had been a screaming competition between Grace and me for the resulting minute or two – I’d have won hands down.
Worst thing is, (apart from the pain), that I swore when I did it. Loudly, profusely, and with all my heart.
“FOR F**K’S SAKE!!!”
And now it would appear that Grace has taken these new exciting words on board and uses then at every opportunity. I am mortified.
I watched her fondly in her little woolly dress and pigtails as she carefully figured out how to open her Snowman DVD. She turned the box this way and that. She scratched and patted it. Eventually, she turns her little head to me and sighs heavily. “F***sake Mummy.”
Oh God oh God oh God. Bad BAD Mummy!
Why has this particular phrase come so easily and yet “I love you Mummy” – though drummed into her constantly – is not forthcoming?
Why have I got Grace too much stuff for Christmas AGAIN and my husband diddly squat?
Why won’t my toe stop hurting?
MERRY BLOODY CHRISTMAS!