Time.

Well, here we are, possums. Just let me grab a coaster for my cup of coffee, then we can sit down and I can begin to tell you all about my week.

Hello? No?

Just as well I made a hair appointment for this morning because I pay the hairdresser to listen, right?

It's all good. (No, it isn't. It really isn't. Who am I f*cking kidding?)

And that which isn't good is mostly down to my mismanagement of my resolve to say and to stick to: Not My Problem.

I thought this gig would get easier as they get older. (Yes, here I go again. Relax, possums, I'm not going to get into a big rant about Asshat.) But seriously, some parts of it do get easier. Yes, they feed themselves. Yes, they take showers by themselves. Why, one can even style its own hair and do its makeup. So can Pencils. They dress themselves. They use the telephone, the internet and all other modern techno stuff without needing any assistance. They organise their social lives, their sporting commitments and even know exactly when that special program they want to watch is about to start.

So how come they can't remember their PE uniforms when they need them? Why is it that everything they need today has been left at their Dad's house? Why are my mornings thrown into chaos - and we're talking EVERY morning - because of missing planners, shoes, notes, homework assignments? Despite my having asked the night before, several times, "Do you have all your stuff organised for tomorrow?"

And really, why do I let myself get so caught up in it all? I'm sitting here guilting out, with a tight chest and a stomach which feeks like it must look like a cover of a 1970's macrame magazine because Noise put on his Henny-Penny, "Oh My God, The Sky Really Is Falling" face this morning and looked like he wanted to end it all because I sat in the car repeating, "Not My Problem. You Deal With It."

You know what? It's not really them. I know, I know - they're teenagers (well, one is anyway and the other is doing a pretty damn good impression of one) and I know there's plenty out there who can relate. They're good kids. They're pretty self-absorbed and will only get up and help if you scream at them and bribe them ( usually at the same time). They're normal. It's me and it's the fact that I don't feel as though I've got time for anything. No-one or no thing gets my undivided attention at all - I'm doing twelve things at once it seems and not one of them particularly well.

And damn it all - that bloody chatty tradesman I mentioned last week? Well, he botched the job up and now has to come back again to fix it up. THAT was the straw that broke the camel's back this morning. Having to make that call.

So, it was a toss up between a trip to the psych ward and some serious chemical intervention or, as mentioned earlier, a hair dressers appointment. Wisely, I've opted for the latter.

Then I'm going to buy myself a 24-hour planner and sit down and see why I can't make it all balance and work out better. Maybe it's those six hours of sleep each night - perhaps that's time I could be putting to better use?


Yours sincerely

Ozfemme The Martyred Who Loves To Throw A Pity Party.

I'm done now.

I'm sure my hair will make it all better later today.