When in doubt – bake. So that’s what I’ve done. Lots. And now I have a stomach ache given the seven or so cinnamon rolls I pushed into my face clearly didn’t find enough space in my belly and are now threatening to burst me open. Remind me why I’m fat?
In other news, my delightful teenager just broke his bed. Because I am a very nice mama I agreed to the trainers he wanted to get, judging by which Bambino must be under the impression that he is Kanye West, and all was well in my cinnamon roll chomping world. Mini Kanye comes back from his shopping trip and this is where my temper already started to fray as he’d also got a bag I didn’t authorise and tried to argue that the trainers didn’t cost as much as expected. These days I try to pick my battles so I let it go after demanding back the difference in what I sponsored him. The trainers he originally wanted was £140 – not what I’d consider appropriate, so I agreed to chip in £60 as this is what I would be prepared to pay to have on those still growing (and stinky) feet. That’s 43%. The pair he got instead were £75, so I’ve demanded £28 back, meaning I’ve paid the same part, 43% of the cost. Only because he took the piss. Don’t milk me for the maximum and cram in as much as you can, you little con artist. Nope, complimenting my baking skills by saying my cinnamon rolls are nicer than Mormor’s (Swedish grandma) won’t do it, my little snuffle munchkin.
Somewhere after grabbing a plateful of still warm cinnamon rolls and showing off his slightly sneaky haul, he’s gone to his room and sort of thrown himself backwards on to the bed. Now, I’ve thrown myself on to many a bed and often in a drunken and haphazard fashion but not once has one broken, even though I’m apparently quite fat (the scales told me 75 – SEVENTY FIVE!! – kilos just a few days ago and I’m still a little hurt), so I don’t quite believe it. The sod has done more than just throw himself on to it, or it’s the result of many such Bambino-throws and was already going, I dunno. Anyway. The metal support in the middle of the bed frame that the slats rest on is completely bent and it can’t be fixed.
Cue total loss of temper, possibly enhanced by cinnamon roll related stomach pain.
I know, I know. What’s this doing on a sobriety blog? Usually when I post something that’s made me upset or angry in some way, it’s to demonstrate how much better I am at handling everything sans le booze. Oh no, I lost it, shouted and sent him back in with the toolbox – he is taking the whole thing apart as we speak. Yelled at him to find bed frames and OK, I went a little overboard in my rant – guilty as charged.
“Can’t we just find and replace the bit in the middle?” a meek Bambino asked.
“FIGURE IT OUT! Stop looking to me to sort it – figure it out!” I barked.
And that’s what he seems to be doing. He found a serial number for the part in question so once I’ve calmed the hell down I guess it’s a trip to IKEA. But back to sobriety and why I’m telling you this. This shows that just because I’m sober doesn’t mean I’m now a zen PollyANNA of some sort. Oh no. Still me. And I still overreact and go a little nuts sometimes. Sobriety doesn’t magically fix everything you need to work on or make all your flaws disappear. It just gives you the chance to work at improving yourself. And that’s cool with me.
Now if you’ll excuse me I have some more fuming to do.
Today I’m not going to drink.