I’m on strike too!

Today some teachers are on strike. So in support of their right to strike and protest, I’ve decided to strike too. (In my head)..

Dear kids and hubby I am on strike.
The couch that is pushed against the wall nearest to the plug socket (God forbid my phone dies) is my picket line. 

I haven’t got time to make posters or signs. My Haagan Dazs tub with only one spoon should get my point across. 

By the way I know that you all normally try and squeeze on this couch with me by force on a daily basis but you see how my legs are across the whole thing. That’s boundaries people. So whether you are the 8 week old new arrival or the 37 year old ‘old timer’. Same rule applies. 

I am striking and protesting against these various issues.

I object to being woken up on Saturday mornings as though you’ve been enrolled in some Saturday school of which I know nothing about. 

I object to cooking a meal (the same as last week) but however this time you suddenly don’t like chicken. 

I object to seeing more of Ben and Holly and their silly little kingdom than I do of my own friends and family.

As for Peppa pig, she is one of the biggest threats to mental health in women of childbearing age, turning one mum nuts on the hour EVERY hour. She and her family need deporting and turned into smoky bacon. This point is non negotiable. 

I’m protesting against the witchcraft that is in the theme tunes to these toddler cults aka cartoons. How can children in the deepest of naps, hey even ones in an induced coma be woken and hyped by the opening credits of blaze and the monster machines being played on silent in the neighbours house. 

I object to having to be the alarm clock, chef, nurse, accountant, economist, stylist, hairdresser, taxi, entertainment specialist, motivator, dietician, interior designer, cleaner, calendar, waitress, behaviour specialist, form filler, chief door opener to the postman still in my oversized dressing gown with yesterday’s make up on (smudged) wearing hubby’s furry monster slippers and having to smile and make small talk with unbrushed teeth while I sign for a parcel. Nice!

I am protesting against the contraband my kids smuggle home from school daily in book bags, stuffed in pockets and flying about their heads like air traffic control flags. SCHOOL LETTERS. Listen to me school, I don’t care whether you print the letter on paper that is pink, blue, neon yellow, green or stupidly dark purple so you can’t even read the annoying thing. Give it a rest. I don’t even remember what my fridge looks like but it currently resembles a carnival procession with all the colourful letters stuck on it, you have successfully block booked my diary and my last ounce of sanity. 

Stop asking me for money, stop asking me to donate, stop asking for cakes and 30 mins of my time. Getting my kids to you in the first place is an ordeal as it is, what with traffic, school mum parking wars, school mum gang wars and the rest. I might as well just redirect the kids child benefit to you and call it a day… Would that cover everything! 

I’m protesting against the fact that both the remote to the sky box and my iPhone somehow now belong in the hands of people under 4ft. When it’s the ones in the house over 5ft that have direct debits paying for these luxuries. Smh. 

So yeah. I’m on strike (in my head) because if it was real and all of us women hung up our aprons, kicked off our furry slippers, threw out our make up bags and boxed our heels. If we hid the car keys and refused to cook for our families and bake cakes for the school, if we refused to work both paid and unpaid, watch kids play sports as we looked on wondering what we’re cooking for dinner that night and whether the hubby is going to moan about us going to bed in a t shirt with baby sick on it, fluffy leopard print socks from primark and the compulsory floral head scarf to boot. Lawd have mercy!

If we packed it all in ladies the world as we know it would grind to a halt. 

So girls… Let’s just keep on going politely as we’ve always done and save the protests for evenings with the girlies, when husbands or grandmas are watching the kids and the wine is flowing like the Niagara falls. When we can natter, share, banter and expose the secrets behind closed doors with humour and fun that lets you be thankful for ALL the things we’re constantly moaning and protesting about. (Boy we are complicated)!

As always….V x

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