Unwanted Visitors

So it's nearly half term, which means that Ex is coming to the UK to spend the week with the boys.

This should be a good thing.  A break for me.  Some much needed bonding time for them.  But I am dreading it.

You see, the arrangement we have - that I suggested in fact, way back when I was ensconced in Chicago and would just about promise anything to get home - is that when Ex comes to visit his sons, he stays in my house and I move out for the duration of the visit.

As well as being a much more homely environment for the boys to chill out with their dad, it also reduces his expenses and makes it more affordable for him to visit them more frequently.

Oh, it all seemed so obvious and doable when I was in Chicago.  And I know, in my heart of hearts, it is in the boys best interests.

However...

Now I am here and it's MY home...I must be honest, I really don't want my Ex anywhere near it, not least have it tarnished with him sleeping in my bed, sitting on my sofa, shitting in my toilet, blowing his nose while using my shower, using my pots and pans and generally making himself at home in my space.  What on earth was I thinking to even suggest such a thing?

What's worse, on this visit he is being accompanied by his girlfriend and they are going to be sharing my bed together.  Therefore the amber alert potential of his early morning wank has graduated to the full blown red alert threat of their multiple orgasmic shags - the thought of which almost makes me want to move out...and never come back.

To be honest, it isn't really that my home (and new sheets!) are going to be sullied by his (or her) presence.  It's just that I hadn't really considered what a pain in the arse it would be to move out for a weekend/week once or twice a month.  It means that the break that I crave, from single-handedly looking after the boys 100% of the time, day and night, doesn't really materialise.

I don't have the money to pay for a hotel and am very lucky to have a very generous friend who allows me to stay over with her and her daughter.  But it's not the same as being able to relax at home.

However, my main bone of contention is my suspicion that my Ex spends his visit judging my house and how I live.  I just can't stand the fact that he is probably turning his nose up at my dinky little house with its shabby little fixtures.  He has made it very obvious that he expects much more than this for himself and his girlfriend when he finally moves over.  The last time he visited (only 2 weeks ago) I spent two whole days doing my best Mrs Mop impression, cleaning the house from top to bottom, so it would supposedly meet his expectations.  Don't ask me why I did this.  There is no sane explanation.  The need to win his approval is one that I constantly feel I am fighting a losing battle with.  I could climb Mt Everest in a swimsuit and a pair of ballet shoes and you can bet your bottom dollar he would fail to be impressed.  So WHY I even bother would be a sure-fire question for my therapist (if I had one).

On the aeroplane home he wrote me an email entitled 'Your house...your rules ;-)' and then proceeded to give me a list of child proofing recommendations.  Far be it from him to keep his opinions on where I am slacking to himself, obviously.

It's only four more days till his arrival and, already, I am edgy.  I don't want to see him.  I don't want to see her.  I don't want to leave my home.  The boys, needless to say, are counting their sleeps till their dad arrives and are breathless with excitement at the thought of spending six days with him.  They deserve to have a lovely, relaxing, fun time with their dad - and I will continue to do whatever I have to do to make that happen.  But it's not an ideal solution.  Not for me, anyway.  Far from it.

As I sit here in my cheery little kitchen, watching the clock hands tick slowly round to school pick up time, I can see a couple of small coffee stains on the work surfaces, flecks of mud on the floor, a fine layer of light dust on the table in the living room.

I am itching to clean it.

Desperate to whizz around the place like a maniacal housewife, armed with dusters, cloths and the ever faithful Mr Pledge before vacuuming every speck, hair and feather that I come across.

But I am not going to.

I am going to resist the urge to clean this time, even though I think it might induce a panic-attack.  So what if he (or she) thinks the place is a mess?  So bloody what?  As if their opinion counts anyway.  In fact, while I am at it, I might go one better.  Just before they arrive I could scatter the contents of the bathroom bin over the floors, just to give that truly lived in vibe.  Then, to test their nosy natures, I should fill my bedside table with all manner of dildos, butt plugs, handcuffs and toys of a dubious sexual nature, along with a selection of half used lubes and a well thumbed selection of erotic fiction.  (That would make a slight change from the box of spare light bulbs and half used Vicks Sinex that currently lives there...)

Or not.

To clean or not to clean...?  That is the question.

Oh, look at the time - better get myself out in to the rain and on with the school run.  The cleaning can wait.

Till tomorrow at least.