It’s hard work looking after the house, home alone with your son.
“Will you bring your washing downstairs?” It takes three attempts, but he finally complies. Well, bringing half of it anyway. I have to collect the rest.
I go outside to work in the garden. “When the cycles finishes, can you put the washing machine on to spin?” Okay, he says. But it does not happen.
Later: “Can you help me hang the washing out?”
“Just put it in the tumble drier,” he spits back. What, in the middle of a heatwave, when it’s roasting out there? I’ll do it myself.
“Can you please not eat everything in the house and leave nothing for me?”
No, but his appetite is insatiable. There is nothing left but salad.
“Let’s not live in a pig sty,” I say, just as I finish leaving the kitchen spotless. “Please tidy up after yourself.” Of course, that doesn’t happen either.
When he was younger, he was extremely helpful and very tidy. But he has metamorphosised into a teenager. Any chore is insufferable.
Like the little red hen, I must do everything myself.
Last modified: 30 June 2024
