Why you shouldn’t try to blog when you’re hangry.


You shouldn’t really try to do anything remotely challenging in this state.  Nothing good can be achieved, despite your best efforts, when you’re hangry.  Do not try and get parked in a busy carpark when you’re hangry.  Do not try and reason with a moron when you’re hangry.  And whatever you do, do not attempt any form of DIY when you’re hangry.  When Hanger hits – you need to just stop.  And eat the nearest food to you, even if it’s out of someone else’s hands.  There should be a national campaign helping us to recognise the early signs of hanger because once it gets it’s grip on you it’s a slippery slope to a full on meltdown.

But for me, this morning, what I was trying to do was a bit of blogging.  This post title really should read:

Why you shouldn’t try and blog around children when you’re hangry.

The little bears had planned an intricate lego marathon and I chose to ignore all the housework for an hour or so and delve into the blogosphere.  It was all going so well at first so I sat, crossed legged on my bed and started to type away on my laptop.  Before long littlest bear wandered in and said she was tired of ‘all the lego playing’ and asked if we could go and play on the wii (it was resurrected this summer).  I patiently made a deal with her that if she could play for 20 minute we’d all go down and play on it together.  She reluctantly agreed and returned to her sister and the lego.  Now, when I write I need to really concentrate to get in the zone.  Until I get there, for every sentence I write I’ll rewrite it about three times.  I was just stepping over the threshold of the zone about 20 minutes later when littlest bear plodded back into my room expectantly.  But a deal’s a deal and I (inwardly sighing) took them downstairs to dance to Disney songs.  This gave them the break they needed from ‘all the lego playing’ so when we were done the little bears happily ran back upstairs to resume their game.

And this is where it started to go wrong; I didn’t notice the time (it was about 11.30am) and I didn’t notice that my tummy was starting to feel a bit empty.  I was just getting back into the zone when the shouting began.  And the stomping.  In comes littlest bear with biggest little bear at her heel.

‘Don’t listen to her mummy she’s just telling tales’

‘But mummy She didn’t let me-‘

‘Yes I did! You spoilt the game when you-‘

‘Just shush! I’m never going to play with you ever again!’

They weren’t even addressing me anymore.  They were way too busy interrupting and tearing strips off each other.  Loudly.  My secret super-mummy powers of patience were already running low having used most of my supply when I had to break out of the zone the first time.  But with the little I had left, I used my firm mummy voice to stop their bickering and ordered them to go and find a solution themselves or I’d take the lego away.

They mumbled and slouched away together. Peace. Quiet.  And here was my second mistake – I ignored the rumbling tummy because what I was trying to do became simple again.  For about three minutes.  Littlest bear came back in and inspected my nails.  I had only just painted them earlier on and she asked if she could have her nails painted too.

Why oh why did I not just say no??

I counted to ten in my head, took a deep breath and smiled.  Of course she could.  I put the laptop to one side and took the colour that she chose.  I had a sudden case of deafness to the internal warning system going off.  Danger! Danger! I was already feeling a little irritated that this self-selected lego marathon was only marginally a sprint.  My tummy was going to town with the rumbles.  And then Biggest little bear came and jumped on the bed next to me with nail varnish in my hand.  I showed my exasperation and got the nail varnish remover to  fix the mess on littlest bear’s hand.  Then all the cotton wool stuck to my lovely freshly painted nails.

And that was that.

typorama (1)

Hanger hit.  The girl’s watched my tirade with an expression of curiosity mixed with horror.  Like looking into the face of an alien.  I marched them into littlest bear’s room and wave two of the hanger hit.  It was like a lego dinosoar had vomited all over the place.  Tiny pieces of plastic, everywhere.  I’m not talking mid-game everywhere, I’m talking pure carnage.  More expressions of a similar ilk formed on the girls’ faces as I ranted and raved that they were old enough to know better and should be able to play together without wanting to kill each other.  Mummy was very disappointed.  Mummy was very cross. I gave them an ultimatum: One hour and anything left in a mess would go in a bag for the loft.

And then I went downstairs and ate.

I made the girls’ lunches and called them down.  They asked if they could have more time on littlest bears’ room because there was such an awful lot of lego for them to clear up.  I fought to keep a straight face, solemnly agreed that indeed there was a lot to tidy away and they could have all the time they needed if they kept at it.

And all was good with the world again.

I recognise that this story does not paint me in the best light.  I’m not scoring any mummy points with this one.  But this was our morning, warts and all.  I’m not a stranger to being hangry.  If I start to get grumpy the first thing Mr C will ask is when I last ate something.  I should do life with an emergency bag of crisps in my pocket at all times.  I promise, with a full tummy I’m a much nicer person.

Typically, the lego marathon resumed after lunch and ran ever so smoothly and without a hitch whilst I busied myself cleaning the house.  When I would have welcomed an interruption, there was not one.

Do you ever get hangry?

Mrs C x


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