I think I know why they call it ‘squash’

After a several year break, I found myself facing off against my husband today on the squash court. I warmed up the traditional way by hitting the ball – he did some 1980’s callisthenics style stretching moves.

We joked and giggled for a few minutes to break the tension of the moment. What would happen when we started slamming that ball around in a confined overheated room? Would it be payback time for leaving dirty underwear on the floor? Or quietly searching the net for ‘105 new ways to cook kebabs’ while the other was talking?

We would soon find out. It was game on.

Don’t mistake us for actually being good at the game. We are equally as unskilful. But we are reasonably matched, which always makes for a healthy competition. Not that I’m competitive at all…..

So imagine my surprise when I was up 14-0 in the first game. Giddy up. I was smokin’. I even started to feel a little light-headed with my apparent impressiveness. I briefly remembered something about him being a bit of a slow starter, but dismissed it. I was clearly on fire.

He wanted to play the short game; I wanted to be gracious and not defeat him while he sat squarely on zero, so I opted for the race to 21.

‘Nice try,’ I commented (at this point I was starting to feel bad for him).

Perhaps this remark flicked something inside him, or maybe his elbow finally reached optimal warmth. Whatever happened, it resulted in me losing 4 games to love. And wouldn’t I like to tell you how close they were?

But nope, I can’t. I got nailed.

Why didn’t I agree to the shorter game? Dang slow starters….

In spite of being punished rather severely, I don’t feel any worse for it. In fact, today was maybe the first time that I have dealt with losing well. The joy was in the experience, rather than the success.

Maybe I’m finally growing up.

(I am so going to make him pay next week).

Tongue tired

The children are yawning, rubbing their little eyes and insisting they aren’t tired. The sun has embarked on its daily journey to the other side of the world where thousands of parents are bracing themselves for the new morning and the inevitable onslaught of questions, complaints, and necessary adjudications. The end of my day is near. I can smell it.

Of course, that could be the failure of my Rexona – highly likely – but my deodorant is not the only thing that is struggling under the pressure.

Amidst the chaos of it all, the thing that I find the most taxing is the talking. And the listening. Is God teaching me a lesson about how my husband feels when I download? Okay, I get it……

At any given moment I have up to four people speaking at me. They are either trying to a) tell, b) ask, c) complain, d) whinge, e) complain, f) complain g) complain h) tell me they don’t like what I’ve cooked for dinner…….

For a woman with a kazllion-billion word usage limit each day, I’ve used them all by 7pm and just can’t bring myself to do more than grunt as the cover-all response.

Which makes reading bed times stories an insult to an already tired brain.

Which brings me to my point. What was Dr Seuss thinking? Come on, man. Fifty-six pages of rhyme using made-up words? That’s just mean.

Spot Stays Overnight I can handle, but Thidwick the Soft Hearted Moose? I think I need to sit down.