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That Friday Feeling

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I don’t know what it is but every Friday I still get suckered in to that Friday feeling. Its Thursday evening and all you can think about is ‘Thank god it’s Friday tomorrow’. The alarm goes off jump out of bed because its Friday? Why? I have no frigging idea.

I am a stay at home Mum so Friday for me is a forewarning a weekend of chaos is upon me. No routine, kids everywhere, husband everywhere; house is a mess. Soccer runs GAA runs no time for me. No few hours in the morning to go to the gym and maybe a coffee with a friend.

The false pretence of Friday starts for me on a Friday morning. Have to make sure the kids have a treat in their lunch box as Friday is treat day. If I have nothing in its up early to bake something or pray there are a few digestives left in the tin that are not too soft. Get kids to school come home to the tornado destruction that was breakfast and lunch making and try make the place look somewhat suitable that even social services will pass it!

Then on to the gym to do a powerlift class, then back into the car all sweaty and sore and drive like a bat out of hell to Dunnes Stores to do the weekly chore of grocery shopping. Friday is the big haul, the Momma load to feed the troops for the weekend. Battle my way around the supermarket trying my best, honestly my very best not to shout at old people. They are in no rush, I am.

I get funny looks because I am no doubt glowing, like a beetroot. Big red head on me. My hair is stuck to my head like I had just done the ice bucket challenge in the carpark. My eyes are bloodshot from killing myself. And I have no doubt in my mind that I am stinking due to the workout. But even that unnatural odour does not part the isles for me or clear the check out, they are nose blind.

There is a lovely gentleman who shops there on a Friday, he loves to chat. When I am not in a panic I stop and chat, but when I am skidding the trolley around corners I make a run for it.

I park up at the till, and oh look another person not in a rush to get home, put away the shopping, have a shower, maybe a bit of lunch and make it to the school for 1.30pm. I lean over the trolley defeated. I offer to empty her trolley for her which she politely thanks me. Believe me it’s for my benefit not yours.

Hurry the F$%k up!

Score; bag packer at the till. Hope I have some change this time to donate. A lovely, good looking chap packs the bags. But my god is he fussy.

I tell him ‘throw it all in I don’t care just get me out of here’ he laughs. I am not joking just bung it in and let’s go people, time is wasting. He stared at me not sure whether to laugh or have me signed in.

Rewind to 12 years ago no kids, I would have a OCD attack, palpations if anyone offered to pack my bags. I would pay them just to go away. Not even my husband was allowed. I was so meticulous about where everything went. Fast forward 12 years I don’t care anymore.

So I start throwing groceries in to bags he has set up, it was fun actually watching his reaction. I told him that it didn’t matter because the fridge would be empty come Monday and I would be back to reload probably another two times before the madness of Friday once again.

Louise O’Gorman
Louise O’Gorman
I am a stay at home Mum and part time writer of articles and short stories. I am a fiercely independent forty something who spends her days massaging the ego of three young children. Only so I can create genius’s so I can retire and live the high life. Married to my childhood sweetheart the foundation to most of my happiness, on a good day the kids fill the rest of the happiness jar.