My maths isn’t that great, but the way I see it, a few hours of labour per kid, times six, is a lot of ouchy ouchy.
Anyhoo. I didn’t start this post to talk about labour pains, (tangent, tangent), but rather my love for this gorgeous lady. Not only has she endured my terrible teens (and still talks to me), reads my blog (and bolsters my ego), schooled me through, well, school (*angels sing in high pitch voices* ‘HOME-SCHOOL MOTHER OF THE YEEEEEAR!’), but she also….
Pays me. Like money. Like the greeny green stuff. Like the bank digits that keep me feed, house and clothed.
Meet Mama Bear Central.
The woman behind the man.
The woman with the know-all.
The woman who has her fingers on the purse strings.
The Boss would be loss without her. No, scrap that. The Boss would be on a steady diet of baked beans on toast, and by my calculations that’s a lot of Bean Power, man.
So it must also be said that she keeps the Boss fed too.
In short, the Boss and I go out each day and swan around with our paint and brushes. The real worker is Mama Bear, fighting the sufforcating mountain of bills, chung fuing the tax book into jelly legged subjection, manning the phones, and dishing out the cash like a frugal business master.
So it happens when Friday mozzies itself around, a familiar call is placed between myself and Mama Bear Central. I tell her my hours, she zips me the money, I’m happy chappy.
See why I love ‘a?
I decided to shake things up this week. Below is a screenshot of my communications with Money Hub on Friday evening as I was getting ready to stock my cupboards mother hubbard.
I’m in green.
Mama Bear Central is white.
May you always get paid,
xx Trouser Girl