Shenanigans 8th or 9th of March

I'm struggling to keep up with this blog thing. Partly because of 'LIFE' and all it's shenanigans (I'm sure that in today's world, someone somewhere must have sat down and thought "hmmmm, that's what I'll call my baby, an original name like 'Shenanigans' - try saying it outloud with an Aussie accent and it sounds appropriate somehow) and also because a lack of confidence about my own written ability and style. My brain is rusty post-baby - oh, that's a lie because he's not a baby anymore, he's two and a half but what's that between friends? I am a 'victim' of my own success in imposing an effective routine for my child and, as such, it has sapped my imaginative side ( read 'day dreamer') . Instead, I do certain things at certain times of the day. The trouble is, it's the same things at the same time of day, every day. Not really a fertile imaginative breeding ground.
Last night my husband and I had an unexpected five minutes of truth and honesty, a dangerous game to play whether sober or not. He asked me if I still loved him (alarms went off all over in my head) and when I asked him why, he said "I think I irritate you all the time". Now, there's a grain of truth in this but certainly not to the extent that he implied or feared so I replied "in what way?" and he said "with my mess and everything" (he means general disorganised paperwork and wires and cables etc, what I call 'bloke stuff'). I said "Don't be silly, that's just bloke stuff". But deepdown I felt, and still feel, full of guilt that I have been making him feel this way. I am responsible for some of him feeling like this, I am turning into my Mother in that I become 'edgy' if the house is a mess or the newspapers are piling up. Undoubtedly I have not hidden my feelings about this enough - I'm sure I'm not fully aware of how visible teeth gnashing is to one's husband. I hate to think that I am going to drown in my own ecological disaster that is a bi-product of modern day family life: the plastic milk cartons, the ready-meal trays, the nappies (no he isn't nappy trained yet) the bottled water because our tap water doesn't just stink of chlorine, it actually tastes of TCP. All these things that seem to be a blemish on a sense of order and control if they are left to gather dust.
I dropped round to 'LovelyMum's' house this afternoon. I took homemade flapjack which our children duly scoffed and I pretended I had already eaten thus avoiding any embarrassing fat conversations. 'LovelyMum' is a classic teeny tiny pear and rose (pear shaped and English Rose) and although I'm not huge, I knew that if I started eating, I would start waffling on about my own self-loathing and body hatred. What I want to know, which I think we all want to know, is how does she do it? How does she eat and not get FAT. I should add, I don't suspect an eating disorder is at play, just that she is like a French woman: eats and doesn't get fat.