Never ask this question

I was out all day yesterday. When I left the cat was licking himself on the couch and the dog was asleep on the bed. When I came back six hours later, they were still in the exact same position.

“What the fuck have you done all day?” I asked them. And that reminded me of something I wrote back in 2013 and so I think we need to revisit it….

My personal experience with this was rather short lived. It was at a time where I had a baby, a toddler, had had no sleep for years, was lucky to shower twice a week and my idea of a good time was lying on the kitchen floor, sobbing gently while listening to talkback radio and yelling at all the fuckwits that called in to complain about muslims.

He only ever did it once, but Mr Woog sauntered in from work one day, as happy and as cheery as a clam and questioned me as to why I was still in my pyjamas, and why was the house such a pigsty.

I won’t go into what happened next, but I will tell you that watching his dinner fly out onto the backed like a super frisbee, I questioned whether I should give up the stay at home mum gig and start training for the Olympics.

To compete in the discus.

It was enough for Mr Woog to never, ever question how I spent my time again.

Nowadays, things are a little easier of course, with the kids grown up and all. I work from home, so you think I would be on top of these things, but I like to prioritise watching Ellen over tending to everyone’s filth, so it is still not ship shape around these parts.

If I have a particularly taxing day, I will just shoot my beloved a little text suggesting that I am at my fucking wits end and and if anyone would like dinner in the house then someone else better arrange it.

The scenario that Brooke suggests is played out every evening in thousands of houses all over the world. Recently I went away for 4 days and came home to find the house in a state so bad, I thought there must have been an earthquake. Mr. Woog met me at the door and held me long and tight, thanking me for coming home and telling me that I was never to leave again.

The kids walked out of the kitchen eating cold hotdogs from the fridge in their underpants, and greeted me with the same enthusiasm.

Do I think prison food is worth it? No…

But I do think that is any types of these noises and eyebrow raising “What DID you do all day…” I prescribe a few days away, maybe in a hotel with a kick ass room service menu, and leave your phone at home.

How do you deal with “So, what have you done all day?”