The damned clock has defeated me again.
The promise of a whole new day stretching out ahead of me has been reduced to this – a house infinitely more chaotic than when the (promising) day began and dinner is not started. Best intentions have been sucked into the vortex of breastfeeds and nappy changes, picking up and wiping down, reprimands and kisses better, refereeing for and negotiating with people who can't (won't?) wipe their own bums.
And all the while, the day is stealing away, another Vegemite smudge on the counter, another twelve matchbox cars all lined up in a row and ready for me to trip over.
I know the only sensible solution is to let it go. If the fight is unwinnable, why come out of my corner each day as though this day will be the one I land the knock out punch on my formidable opponent? Time, order, perfection.
I am only one woman.
Strange how there are never enough hours in a day that has dragged mercilessly since the moment you were wrenched from a dead sleep by tiny, wanting hands.
And as the waistband on my jeans grows ever more uncomfortable, I shake my head in confusion as I pour litres (litres!) of cola down my throat, sugar the devil that rides with me.
And all I can do is apologise. For the chaos I reign over. For this post which I have written before and will write again.
This is the broken record soundtrack of my days.