The Measure of a Woman

Sometimes tweets really grab you.

Let me explain.

This morning my partner woke me at 6am (not as bad as it sounds, I always go back to sleep after he leaves for work) and I remember in that half-asleep dreamy way thinking ‘wow, I’ve slept a whole 6 hours and Naomi didn’t wake me up once. Perfect!’ then drifted back off to sleep.

The next thing I know, Keiran’s at my bedside saying ‘Naomi’s eaten four Rockies,’ a kind of biscuit (very moreish), so I leap out of bed cursing because I was silly enough to leave them within reach the previous night. I race down the stairs, tell Naomi off and clean up the mess. I go back upstairs and fortuitously happen to be holding my phone when my partner calls. It’s 9am.

“Hi.” I can hear there’s something wrong in his voice straight away. “I’m fine, but I’ve had an accident.” Great. My love is a courier and an accident means no work, which means no money. He asked me to find his insurance documents and give him a phone number. I trundled down the stairs, found the bits and pieces he needed, grabbed some of my paperwork I had been neglecting and settled in front of the computer.

Open up TweetDeck and the following tweet catches my eye:

The measure of a man is the way he bears up under misfortune. Plutarch.

You got that right, honey!

That’s when I noticed the hair on the floor… the scissors… Miss 3 youngest sporting a new look… WHAT DID YOU DO?!!

Mummy, why are you sad? She asks me. I’m sad that you cut your hair, darling. I didn’t do it, says she, Keiran did. WTF?? Master 6, loving big brother that he is, cut her hair because it was in her eyes while she was playing on the computer. He did a pretty good job, all things considered, but Miss 13 tidied it up a bit, thankfully, and it looks quite good now. Miss 3 looks quite different though…

Anyway, I sorted out my car insurance, wrote a letter to the girl I sponsor in India and got ready to go and collect my beloved from somewhere in deepest darkest Feltham, not before snatching the scissors from the hands of Miss 3 with an incoherent yelp. I think she was trying to fix the damage but I wasn’t stopping to find out.

In the car to Feltham, back home, then had a Long Talk with the man about what the hell we’re going to do. We decided to get the kids out from underfoot so phone calls could be made, so while they played upstairs I cleaned the bathroom and Miss 13’s bedroom *shudder*. We then headed off to Haselmere to pick up a van for hire.

Back home, got the dinner on, man went out to speak to work about his availability (much better now he has a bigger van, more money, yay). Man caught in traffic on the way home due to an accident (not him this time), finally made it back, then I went off to supermarket with Miss 13 to get some hair colour (I’d been promising we’d go out all day..), back home, man went out again to see his brother about the van (he’d bought the van from his brother and was paying him back over time). Miss 3 and Master 6 finally got into bed at 8.30pm, not without a little bit of shouting at Miss 3, who thought that if she came downstairs, sat in a box and covered her eyes then I wouldn’t be able to see her…

I cleaned up the kitchen and now Miss 13 is upstairs dying her hair discovering why I say I’ll do it when I’m good and ready.

I’m happily blogging, listening to 80s radio and drinking Crabbies at 10pm..

I was really pleased with how I dealt with today. I didn’t spiral down, freak out, or any other variant of useless response. I was unhappy and worried but I managed it all. Where possible I avoided situations that I thought could really stress me (no shoe shopping today kids, sorry!) and just coped with what was in front of me.

So, Plutarch, I’m going to improve your already impressive thought.

The measure of a WOMAN is the way SHE bears up under misfortune.

And I’m so good I’m fucking immeasurable 😀

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One Response to The Measure of a Woman

  1. Kaela says:

    shudder, shudder! you vaccumed my room! and i did a good job acctualy, with dyeing my hair, not keeping the bathroom clean… sorry

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