I woke up this morning feeling less than wonderful. Sore throat, headache, felt like cement had been poured into my ear overnight. Not hungover I might add, just bone-achingly tired for a variety of reasons. So it was with delight that on entering the kitchen I saw the dishwasher open but not unloaded, washing up piled up by the sink, kids not eating breakfast but watching TV in the other room and Him indoors de-bobbling his jumper.
When I eventually corralled them and got them breakfast I pleaded with them not to use all the milk, which of course meant they used all the milk. No tea. It was just getting better.
“Mummy are you ok?” Eliza said.
“No. I feel rubbish and all I want is a cup of tea.” Tilly looked uncomfortably at her overflowingly milky bowl of cereal.
“Oh…sorry.” she says.
“S’ok.” I say, clearly meaning the exact opposite.
“Mummy you should get out of bed in the morning and jump up and say I Am Wonderwoman! Because you are.” said Eliza.
“Ah thanks. Don’t feel wondeful.” Said I. Like a 6 year old.
“But you are wonderful and amazing. It won’t work unless you really believe it.”
I’m not sure what kind of self help Eliza has been reading but I have to say it helped me. The mere fact that my 9 year old daughter thinks I’m wonderwoman was enough to help me shrug off the best part of my shitty mood, get the show on the road and eventually get them to school and myself to work.
The knowledge that the little person I have brought up is so kind to me is actually rather lovely.