A friend invited me out tonight.
Originally, we were going to go to the movies, but to be honest, I’m rather sick of watching crap movies with her. It’s a terrible knack we have.
Given nothing was on, but after yesterday’s swimming lesson performance and that I sent Chippie to childcare today looking like this:
… well, I figured me being out was a good thing.
I rummaged through the DVD drawer, only to discover we have a lot of sequels to movies, but the firsts are not there. They are in storage. Mostly, all the ones I want are in storage. The DVD drawer does retain, however, approximately seven empty re-recordable video boxes. And some cords and cables that probably belong to something that is a) also in storage, or b) we no longer own.
I grab my brand, spanking new copy of Chicago. I got it for Mother’s Day this year. I’ve wanted it for longer than that, but I have it now. Since then, I have longed for the precice number of moments that would allow me to sit on the couch and watch it.
That moment has not happened. Yet.
I hop in the bath, advising Grumpy Pants that I have tipped the epsom salts into it, as my back is very hurty, and Chippie is not to come in. I don’t know what the epsom salts might do to him. I did suggest it may be dangerous, so it is imperative he stay out.
I ease down into my vanilla-y sudsy bath, and just as I allow myself to relax, Chippie wanders in.
“I wanna baf, too,” he tells me. Oh what a surprise.
I yell for help. I tell him it is too hot and he can’t come in. Steam is coming out my ears, and not due to the very hot bath, either.
He screams – because, apparently, he feels this will make me change my mind.
How long do I need to say “calm blue ocean” to myself before I stop wanting to shove heads into this calm blue ocean, and hold them there?
He screams some more when I give into his tanty as I usually do. Which is never.
He picks up my bookmark (I’m now unsure why it was out of the actual book I was not actually reading due to screaming child) and rants at me about how he doesn’t want me to have it any more.
After seven minutes of this Grumpy wanders up and takes Chippie’s hand. In a final departing gesture, he glars at me, picks up the bookmark he made for me at Childcare, and tosses it to the floor.
The screams, a short shard AGH!, as the door is almost, but not quite closed as they depart.
Monkey Boy wanders in.
“Can you please make us your yummy pizzas before you go? So we’re not forced to eat the yucky take away ones?” he asks.
“Not while I’m in the bath,” I reply, and hope he forgets when I get out.
He doesn’t, and gives me a filthy look when Grumpy suggests take away pizza for dinner.
“Meh,” is all I can come up with at the time. Then I suggest he make them and he looks at me like I’m an idiot.
I dress in jeans and a nice top. Then take them off … and put on leggings and a comfy top. I pack my slippers for the drive home.
And off I go.
We get takeaway pizza, watch Chicago and eat chocolate.
And without unnecessary, incessant chatter nor the need to provide explanation along the way. No children getting up out of bed. No children making noises in bed.
No other noise at all …