I don't even think you need to have children to have The Sunday Stomp. Anyone can be partial to it. Let me explain. I am a slacker at the weekend. Well when I say slacker I mean I only do the ironing in the morning and 'cook' hot dogs for the kids tea. As for the two of us - to get a faint whiff of coupledom we have a 'grown up' dinner which is either 1) very easy to cook and probably involves chorizo - the grown up element or 2) a man will knock at the door with something infinitely better. I like to do something family orientated during the day. Something specific be it a bike ride, walk in the woods, movie night....... you get the picture. Its kick back time.
|The Exorcist and The Sunday Stomp are very similar - BTW the husband thinks I look like the girl in this obviously when I was a girl! - pic ebay|
Repeat much of the same for Sunday although the slack has tightened a bit. Today, I changed the bed sheets (saves me an hour on Monday), put the ironing away (see above), put 3 loads of washing on and that's about it. The hoover has not had an outing since Friday. We scootered to the paper shop, I read the Sunday papers, everyone is milling around and quite happy. Tea is a tad more of an effort than the previous night but its still pretty chilled....until....WHAM (at approx 6.15pm) The Sunday Stomp enters my body like something from The Exorcist - just like millions of other mums across the globe.
Urgh there's SO much to do. The kids need baths, hair wash, book bags need to be good to go, spellings need to be written out, books need to be read, lunch boxes need to be out (and I don't even do the lunches the night before and I still have the Sunday Stomp). I'm a muttering mad women "I hate fucking Sundays" "fucking shit, bollocks, crap." The house is an absolute shit hole as nothing major has been done. The bins need emptying, the food caddy (I hate you Croydon Council - its made out of fucking plastic and you pick it up with huge diesel trucks you Muppet's), the recycling bag that is the half way bag to the real recycling bins is full with the Sunday papers and I feel fatter as I've forgone my workout in the mist of my holiday weekend mode and AHHHHHHHH! I am now stomping my way around the house. I'm like a fairy elephant crushing my way through rooms just in case anyone failed to notice I am pissed off. I am the put upon woman.
The kids, however, are still on Saturday mode not fully understanding The Sunday Stomp taking over their mother's body. They are being frivolous, joking even - NO! You cannot be laughing and messing around on a Sunday evening absolutely not. The husband has retreated to the study to weather the storm, my barking is getting louder, I'm into semi-Sargent major mode - "its tidy up time" " run the bath" "do your spellings."
Then, as quickly as it entered my body, The Sunday Stomp leaves (approx 7pm - whilst we all watch Catchphrase - yes I tape it guilty pleasure no 256 followed by Dire Straits) and calm has been restored.
The Sunday Stomp has left the building.
Until Next time...