Something has to give, apart from my waistline

Something has to give, apart from my waistline. I have got into the habit of surviving on caffeine and feral snatches of sugary things and bread dipped into whatever's nearest - no, not that. Square meals do not seem to appeal, spiky unmeals have become the thing. I know I must not do this, but like a Smartie-fueled kid on a trampoline, I just can't seem to get off (on anything healthy). To this end, like a pendulum at full swing or a see-saw at full tilt, I have bought a juicer. Husband and I have stripped the apple and pear trees bare, and now I can drink coffee and be virtuous at the same time! I do know that it has to give, and like a bad friend, it does. The jitters for instance - it's not instant. Husband has suggested I give up coffee for next year, given I gave up alcohol for this year. What does he think this is? Grade one, grade two, grade three? What will I have left in my crutch bag? Yes, he is still alive.

I still feel out of whack (and whacked out from lack of sleep - why do my 1 and 3 year olds still play the wakey-wakey game like jack-in the boxes at all times during the night?) with the seasons given the transitions we as a family have been making, and unable to catch up with the fact that it is no longer summer, though, in an autumnal fumble I did put tights on for church last Sunday, my body going through the motions while my head cried that it was still beach weather, whilst eyeing my daughter's pink sandalled feet as evidence - she refused to acknowledge that it wasn't summer anymore either, but in quite a different, and more vocal, way.

The house is emerging from the stuff we dumped on it when we partly moved in a month or so ago. Previously we could not tell that it was remotely house-shaped, though we perceived that there was a garden into whence we could tip the children while we tried to make their interior habitat less dangerous. I still avoid ladies with organised houses. I can't take the shame. I don't let them in anymore.

Another fact that I can't get my head around is that my eldest is eighteen on Sunday. He is now older than I was when I left home (17), but I will be holding onto his ankles for as long as I can, and believe me I am Elastagirl.

So this is how I am rolling at the moment: slow mo in some areas and way too speedy in others. Let's hope I all catch up. Was that ketchup I just dipped into?