Well the working thing is working fine. I go to work, I work.
But it's the balancing act. It's the endless juggling. It's not death-defying, it's just I am not coping.
So. Many. Notes. And I can't keep up. Our kitchen table is currently covered in notes:
- This note tells me to send it back for tickets (to which both my children are now telling me I am too late and there are no tickets, and no you can't come)
- This one says I'm to sign and send it back and I will be billed in your next set of fees
- The next one wants to know if I can help with face painting
- The other one is telling me what clothes I need to send with the kids for the concert (and PS you'll be billed for the rest of the outfit in the next set of fees)
- You want your kid to learn recorder, right? So sign and send this back and we'll bill you for the aural pleasure
- This one is telling me I haven't paid our fees
- And here's the weekly newsletter - that you have to read just in case, and by the end of the 14 pages (I am not even exaggerating) you realise that one paragraph related to you
I can not keep up.
I never know what's happening at school.
I am failing this whole working mum, perfect balance, women can have everything thing.
I've dropped so many plates I don't even have a bowl to eat breakfast out ofdotcom
Oh you want me to put a positive spin on it? I am failing successfully.
I am really excelling at being the drop out mum.
I'm the pariah of the playground.
Welcome to my public breakdown.
* Neither of these images reflect what our home looks like. Purely for illustrative, meltdown purposes.
