Christmas Time Is Fun. Yes. Really.

Oh well, I didn't chuck myself off the blogging. Not just yet.
And today my head is going to explode with all the stuff that is going on in it. So much going on inside because there's so much going on outside. Life. Busy. Busy. B.U.S.Y. I thought Christmas was meant to be fun. But tonight as I write I'm feeling all clogged up - like I've eaten my entire weight in chewing gum and then been put in the freezer and now I'm stuck.
Today was meant to be a fun Christmassy day. In fact it started off quite badly with Liz coughing insessantly from 5.30-7.30am and it sounded a bit like the cough that Mol had which was actually an asthma attack that hospitalised her for 4 days. So I lay in bed wondering whether to get up and listen to her chest. But after 2 hours it was morning time and we all woke up. And she stopped coughing and starting snotting instead. Fair exchange.
And then things picked up a bit - Husband made bacon and eggs for Mol and himself and then they skipped off (well, drove) to pick up our American-style-over-sized Christmas tree (discount at the garden centre you see) and bought it back and the house immediately smelt of Christmas and out of the cellar I dug our slightly dusty damp decaying decorations (they'll do, again).
And then we all jumped back into the car and drove off on phase 2 of our day (lunch in Waltham on Thames). Hurrah.
But disaster struck outside the Sobell Centre (I went ice-skating there once when I was a teenager) when some STUPID COW with her totally MORONIC fuck-wit teenage son (with bad bum-fluffy hair growth - she just had mad womans' stubbly hair on her face in a beardy fashion) drove her VW into the side of our car. And then because she didn't speak very good English she got a bit overly-loud and started say "I no liaaaaar" at which point I was like 'Husband, she's probably given us a false telephone number' and Husband started taking photos of her and her sons' hairy faces and their car.
Meanwhile Stan who was sitting in the bus-stop with a white plaster stuck on his most recent shaving accident on his chin gave me his number and said he'd be my witness (even though he's from Leicester- not that that means he shouldn't be a witness, but just that he's quite not local, so it could be a bore for him...).
So after 30mins of standing in the no.91's bus-stop and causing a bit of a jam, I implored Husband to stop talking to the by now almost ranting woman and her fuck-wit teenager ("please can I have your address?" I asked him. "What? I don't know my address. I'm a teenager?" - and that's the absolute truth. See? Fuck-wit.)
So we drove off and I was so cross. Daft idiotic woman. And we were 1hour late for lunch. And lunch was lovely but hard work as I had Liz on my knee getting clammy and refusing to eat her pizza and I was spilling butternut squash soup every where and each conversation got cut short by one of the 7 kids falling off a chair/biting a tongue/wanting more/wanting less/not sitting next to the right person/needing a pee/doing a fart/screaming for the sake of it/snotting on their mother (me) - y'know? And then before I could put the last scary monster on to my godsons most impressive Castle Of Doom (comes with monsters which really are the stuff of nightmares)
it was time to plod on to the next session - phase 3 of the day: tea with sister in law in Shepherds Bush, followed by their Xmas party (have been looking forward to it).
Phase 3 goes as follows: arrive at The Bush of Shepherd, unpack 50 fairy cakes and a ton of brownies made last week in spare moments for the party. Feed Mol a giant plate of spaghetti. Realise that Liz really isn't feeling very well (sweaty coughing refusing pizza, again - refused brownie - even), make executive decision to not put on gold party shoes, load the car with crying Liz (covered in snot) crying Mol (who'd wanted to hand out fairy cakes to her grown up friends at the party) and myself - with a phone running out of battery, a car with a battered rear end (a bit like mine I guess) two crying snotting kids and a 45 minute journey to N8 (and a traffic jam on the West Way).
So here I am.
And this is why I'm wondering where the fun bit of Christmas is? This run up to the Big Day is mental. Office parties. Neighbourhood parties. School parties. Nursery parties. Shopping. Making endless lists. Going round in circles. Having moronic hairy women smash into your rear. Feeling anxious about the credit card. Wondering if this will be the last year your child believes in Father Christmas. Not knowing what to get Husband for Christmas when he asked for a jumper and yet came home from work last week having bought himself a - yes, you guessed - jumper! Worrying about the crack in the ceiling above my bed. Trying to remember to send cards to all the right people. Its sometimes just too much. Or am I just a bit too precious?

Actually I think I'm feeling guilty. I have guilty mothers' syndrome: I don't spend enough time with my kids, (and when I'm with them my mind is elsewhere). I don't spend enough time at work (so permanently feel poor). I don't spend enough time with Husband (and when I do we talk about money and work and house and try to make plans for the future that don't seem realistic). I don't spend enough time cleaning (finally cleaned the top of a picture in the bathroom - it was black). I don't have enough time for friends and when I do I'm thinking that I should be at home with my kids or Husband. I worry about my liver. I worry about my skin. And my wrinkles. And my expensive eye-sight. And my cheap clothes. Oh, and I guess I worry about the childrens' education, sometimes.
So that is why my head is a bit spinny and I guess that's why I'm feeling a bit bah-humbug. Or maybe it's just plain and simple: I'm peeved that I'm not in my gold high-heels drinking a bottle of bubbly that I saw in sister-in-laws giant fridge... sneaking a fag in their garden and trying to find a star in the black clear December sky...