If Kofi Annan ever needs a holiday, I am well equipped to stand in for a few days!
It’s 6.30 am as I exit my bedroom, lick my finger and hold it up. Which way will the wind be blowing today?
Should I make a pre-emptive strike and whip up a batch of pancake mix to soothe away the worries about the week ahead OR will I grab the BG meter and a finger wipe and run into the first room, gently wake my sleeping child and run to the shower before any rumbles begin?
There is no failsafe way to predict how the week will begin! There really is no method of avoiding the rumbles and grumbles, the sore stomachs and the head aches (real or imagined – how am I to know the difference?), the request for a day at home or the need to whack a passing brother with any object to express the all too real frustration with the world.
I opt for the latter, more cowardly, approach. I stop to watch for the rise and fall of that boyish chest, release the tension from within myself and am soon under the cleansing jets of the shower, hoping that all three boys are up and there isn’t a war going on in my kitchen.
False cheer is my go to mood as I enter the battle field dressed for work and war paint on! I hope it’s infectious and catching! I don’t quite hear all the pleas and plough on regardless until everyone becomes more pleasant. Gradually unforms are put on and lunches are prepared. My bag is packed and I’m ready to go! Victory!