Besides the full-time job, the young family, the research, and the church choir - this week, I've played for two funerals, visited the osteopath, visited my research supervisor, and have just spent the evening feeling like the proverbial Irish washerwoman.
SuperSpouse is out playing for a Burns' Supper. PseudoSupermum thus becomes SuperTaxi for her offspring. In between times, I hung yesterday's and the first of today's laundry loads on the pulley, and put another three washes into the machine. (Please note, this has all accumulated since last night. Barely a day passes but I don't deal with laundry.) I did most of the ironing. I set the bread-machine to start early tomorrow morning. I supervised music practice. And I put together a car-bootful of junk for the charity shop.
I'm knackered! I just thought I'd do the osteopath's recommended routine of icepack then water-bottle then icepack, but am stuck here with the icepack and the realisation that each boy is slumbering peacefully with a hot water bottle. There isn't one left for me! The icepack is blooming chilly, and my neck is now sore with cold as much as anything else! I've just been reading a blog by someone living on a remote Scottish island, feeling his aching age at the age of 38. Try being 48, Sunshine!
Maybe I could steal the waterbottle from the boy who has been asleep longest? He wouldn't be any the wiser, after all ...