Children & babies · fun · General parenting · Home and Family · Love · Marriage · mental health · relationships · sacrifice

Tin Happy Years

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When one hears the word “Tin”, what generally springs to mind is a tin of flaked tuna, a singleton’s serving of chunky vegetable soup or some sugar-free baked beans. A gloopy cocktail of syrup, in a negligible amount of fruit, a fat-free, caffeine-free, everything-free Coke Zero or maybe even a G&T in a slimline can, if you’re really posh. Princes, Campbell’s, Heinz, Coca Cola or Gordons & Schweppes – whatever marketing masterpiece your tin of choice is encased within, at the end of the day, it’s final fate is as of any other cheap, rusty, hollow Tin Can, that is – cracked open, used and emptied, before being slung into the giant gob of a bacteria-infested, creeping crawling cesspit of a recycling bin.

So when my Other Half threatened to buy me a gift of some “Tin” to mark the, quite frankly, miraculous occasion of our Tenth Wedding Anniversary, you can imagine I was less than impressed. Do I look like I need another sodding Tin Can in my life? Do I not fork out enough money improving the condition of your heart with beans, beans, the more you eat the more you fart? And can I infer from this ever so subtle hint, that tonight’s “Three Tin Can Course” banquet is a notch up on the fare I usually provide? It is indeed hard to fathom how on earth this ghastly metal managed to make it’s way to the top spot marking the Big 10. Why “Tin” has traditionally been chosen to represent the tenth year of a successful marital union is quite simply beyond me. Could it be as trivial as a play on words – tin, ten, ten, tin? Or is there a more subtle hidden irony that Simple Women like me will Never. Ever. Get?

Apparently there is some logic behind the Ten Tin Conundrum. Tin is a soft and malleable metal with a low melting point, which when cast, becomes strong to create a protective coating for other metals. The crème de la crème of Tin does not tarnish or rust, thereby maintaining an untainted and highly polished finish. Tin represents durability and protection and according to ancient civilisations, wisdom, balance and kindness. Without Tin, they say our lives would be lacking mercy and a sense of morality, and our relationships would be much sterner and harsher. “They” are clearly a lot cleverer than I. However, now we’ve cleared up the truth about Tin, its privileged position commencing the Conjugal Double Digits should start to make sense, wouldn’t you think?

So when my Other Half threatened to buy me a gift of some “Tin” to mark our ten years of Holy Matrimony, perhaps this was in fact less of a threat and rather more a well-considered, meaningful act of sincerity and love? Could it be that He truly understood the significance of such a milestone in our lives together thus far? Was his hard and strong outer shell melting away to reveal a soft, molten inner core, gushing with the purest of love? Well, had I actually received said “Gift of Tin”, then I might have believed it. But let’s not get carried away. As with any anniversary, birthday or special celebratory day, at our ripening old age, there is always an air of disenchantment on the horizon. And on this particular occasion, our Tenth Wedding Anniversary (in case you didn’t realise), disregarding the disappointing lack of Tin Gift, not only was I physically as SICK AS A DOG but I was also embroiled in “women’s stuff”, of which I shall spare you any further details. Needless to say, there was disappointment all round. In fact, “disappointment” is a total understatement. This, combined with running around after Three Terror Tots in a Spring heatwave like no other, was enough to send us both over the edge. And apparently, it was my fault. It was all my sodding fault.

“If it’s not a migraine, it’s illness. If it’s not illness, it’s your monthly do. And if it’s not your monthly do, it’s chronic fatigue. In fact Dear Wife of Ten-Tin-Can-Years, it is so Gd’dam “coincidental“, you couldn’t have planned it better yourself. Or could you? For it seems just too “typical” that, on each and every opportune occasion such as this, something always gets in the way of a “Good Time”. Which leads me to question, Dear Wife of mine, is there ever a Good Sodding Time for anything more meaningful than shovelling up shitty nappies and continuing to hum nursery rhymes in solitude to oneself, after ten years of marriage and three kids?”

And breathe. If you’ve read my post The Seven Year Itch, you’ll realise that nothing much has changed in three years. And if you’ve also read my post The GR, you’ll know that with a miserable cow of a wife for 10 years, He is well within his rights to be pretty damn peeved. So having found other ways to pacify Him, such as food, complements and other unmentionables, let’s now remind ourselves of why we’re here discussing love, life and Tin in the first place. Three happy kids, three happy homes, a zillion happy holidays, seven happy cars, a loving family and a bunch of happy-clappy friends = Ten Happy Years. Now stop complaining and crack open an ice cold Tinny.

 

 

Children & babies · General parenting · Health · Home and Family · mental health · Motherhood · Mum · Personal development · sacrifice

The Magic of Space

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When your Mother buys you a book with 248 pages solely dedicated to transforming “your home into a permanently tidy, clutter-free space,” and with the precursor, “You’re probably not going to like this Dear,” you know you’re in trouble. Last year and crucially, last year, my Mother gifted Marie Kondo’s “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying” to me. And since last year, have I even picked it up? No way. For when my Mother, in an pre-meditated act of pseudo-kindness, bought me a Zen-shmen, Japanese sensation of a book, containing “simple and effective ways to banish clutter forever”, I had no choice but to interpret this as a tactless and underhand move, an insult plain and simple. Continue reading “The Magic of Space”

Choice · fun · General parenting · Home and Family · Motherhood · Personal development · sacrifice

Diary of a Wimpy Mum

Recently, I was out on an adult-only evening which involved completing a meal in its entirety, whilst simultaneously engaging in civilised conversation, when my very adult friend asked if I would like to join her new book club. A book club? [I scoffed]. Now there’s a laugh. Isn’t that where grown-ups meet on a regular basis to unlock the hidden depths and common threads running through mutually selected texts, whilst nibbling on fancy flavoured nuts and tippling on tiny tots of sherry? My very adult friend took a sip of her robust-looking red, whilst I choked on my neon-looking pop and declined her invitation promptly. Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilets would be lost on her club.

Continue reading “Diary of a Wimpy Mum”