Unfortunately, the only adult they could get was me.

Also unfortunately, it started back last week. Only the responsible adult didn’t show, so they had to cancel it at the last minute.

So I sat and supervised as much as a small group of 10-12 year old boys need supervision. That is, not much at all.

Monkey Boy asked me if I could please come into his classroom to help during the last session of the day, because I never did last year.

“That’s because I don’t like your teacher,” I replied.

He gave me an odd look and said “But you do like my teacher this year, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, I didn’t like your teacher last year, so I don’t wanna do it.”

I asked his teacher if she needed and hand, and she said ”no” but the prep-1 teacher might like me to listen to her kids read. So I went in and listened to kids read, while Chippie drove his trains around the floor, said “come and play with me” and poked me repeatedly in the boob.

Up the other end of the classroom, the end Monkey Boy’s class is, I could hear them using words like “skeletal system” and “endocrine system” et cetera and my ears tuned in. I love anatomy and discussion about body bits; but only when the correct anatomical terminology and discussion of the various systems is involved.

I feigned Chippie needing to go to the toilet so I could wander up that end of the room and have an excuse to talk to the teacher about it, and, ahem, offer my availability as classroom helper for the duration of this particular topic.

I sat and listened, rapt and attentive, to the Teacher’s wind down of the topic, and of the day. She read out some of the questions the kids had written down in relation to the various systems of the body.

She made it to the endocrine system and lots of questions about the hormones.

My school days came rushing back to me … and all I could think of was the joke; How do you make a hormone?

The answer, of course, being kick her in the twat!

I cannot wait to be helping out with this unit!

I managed to book myself a leg wax, last minute, much needed and this afternoon. Grumpy Pants was also running slightly late home from work, so we had a few minutes of 11 year old and 3 year old at home alone.

Meh. My legs took precedence.

I arrive home to a somewhat cranky Grumpy Pants, who was exasperated by behaviour of three year old, and then delivered some not overly good news. “Bad” but not horrific would be a more apt description. I was angry and sad and frustrated and angry all at the same time. Also, we were out of milk, bread and coffee.

Grumpy offered to hunt down the required provisions, and Chippie wanted to go with him. Chippie is also being three, which means when you say “go and get your shoes” he has a screaming fit, so you say “Ok, hurry up, don’t worry about your shoes” and he has a screaming fit.

Grumpy says “Fine, don’t come then,” and stomps out. Chippie has a screaming fit and chases him, crying and yelling “Come back, Daddy, I wan’ come!” and Grumpy waits and the process is repeated something like three times, but it feels like 27.

Chippie grabs his shoes and races to the front door, where Grumpy is waiting for him, after having said “I’m going without you.” I wave for Grumpy Pants to move on, because I’m more than over this contrary behaviour of littlest one.

Seriously, fuck him. If he’s going to fuck around like this in an attempt for control and power, he can miss out.

I grab him for a cuddle and to calm him down. He is beside himself.

He kicks and hits and yells about going with Daddy, so I place him on the floor. He runs to the front door, unlocks it and lets himself out. This is fine, because I know he can’t get out the front gate.

“Ah …. FUCK!” I yell as I run up the hall, up the stairs, up the rest of the hall, out the front door, and out the front gate, just in time to see Chippie take the corner at the end of the street.

I run faster, and manage to catch him about halfway down the next street.

I have seriously been thinking about my lack of exercise routine, and regularly entertain the idea of working the odd run into it. If we can manage this most nights, then we’re good.

I’m also rather glad I didn’t get around to putting my jarmies on. Thankfully, I still had my good sports bra on.

I heard it coming from the kitchen.

Well, not technically “the kitchen”, but from the mouth of the three year old who happened to be standing in the kitchen.

“Fuckit.”

“Fuckit.”

This time, it was followed by the almost-girly hysterical giggling of the 11 year old, home from school as he was sick. Oh, I mean “sick”.

At least he had the decency to be helpful and had stopped the littlest one from disturbing my writing time by making him a Milo.

Making a Milo for the littlest one consists of the biggest one dumping far too much Milo into a cup (“I said ONE teaspoon! That is technically a tablespoon!”) which he then takes away, eats with a teaspoon, comes back, requests more be added, then allows you to add milk.

The result? Milo all over face. Which is the instigator of the “Fuckits”.

“Oh,” says Monkey Boy to his baby brother. “You look so cute. You have Milo all over your face.”

“Fuckit,” replies Chippie.

Monkey Boy attempts to wipe it off.

“Fuckit,” says Chippie.

Monkey Boy collapses into giggles and comes in to inform me that Chippie is saying “fuckit”.

*sigh*

An hour later, Chippie wanders in. His shoes appear to be sticking, just slightly, with every step he takes. I can hear it.

“Why are you feet sticking?” I ask him.

“Come and build me a track!” he yells at me.

“Gimme a look at your feet,” I say.

“I. Want. A. Track!” he tells me again.

I lift his foot to see what could be causing his feet to stick, and try not to think about what may or may not be on the floor, or just how much of whatever it is may be on the floor, or tracked through the house.

I take a look.

Milo.

Fuckit.

On the one hand, I think they learn invaluable skills that will last them a lifetime. Also they can cook dinner and make my life easiter.

On the other hand – get out of my fucking kitchen!

(I don’t do well with anyone else in there whilst I’m cooking and fucking up meals and rainbow jelly and stuff. I don’t like anyone in the kitchen when I’m in there.)

After burning my finger whilst cooking lunch today (yes, reheating leftover bbq is “cooking”, so ner) I was even more conscious of the three year old, reaching up to the chopping board and stealing all the fetta cheese as I was trying to chop it.

I finally resorted to “Will you keep him on your lap before I cut his fucking finger off?!” just as I reached across, quite quickly, to move his hand from under the knife and … cut my finger.

Yes, my own finger.

*sigh*

Now both my pointy, pokey fingers are hurty.

This post brought to you by www.chefstoolbox.com.au/my/realmums - and their awesome knives!)

Like, two years ago and not when I was three or six or some acceptable age for contracting Coxsackie Virus.

 I got most of other childhood diseases out of the way when I was an actual child, so that was nice. However, I am still not immune to the odd cold or sore throat virus that enters my home via my various offspring, or my spouse. Most times, I managed just a small does that’s easily tended to with Panadienne and some sleep.

One thing I’m, sadly, not that immune to is anything remotely Gag Inducing. Sadly, I passed on my weak gag reflex to my eldest son, who, in turn has caused mine to weaken even further. The thought of cat food makes me want to vomit. I won’t tell you what my body does when I actually smell cat food.

I can’t physically touch food that has a teensy bit that’s gone mushy or mouldy; I have to turn my head and tip the whole thing into the bin. Or stand at the door and yell for Grumpy to come and deal with it and scream like it’s a whopping great, bird eating spider that has come to devour me.  Seriously. He then rolls his eyes and leaves it for another few days because I’m being all “dramatic” and tells me to “get over it, it’s just food”.

He doesn’t understand!

Also, he thinks he’s funny.

So, after dinner tonight, where Monkey Boy’s sore throat of earlier today – the one that was easily fixed with panadol (but not tablets, capsules or the dissolvable ones – they make him gag) and running around and shooting his brothers – got worse whilst we were out at a restaurant for dinner. He didn’t eat much, which is always of concern to me, as he usually eats copious amounts, then picks at leftovers.

He was near tears when we head home, and, in typical Family Fashion, he informs us he needs to vomit. There are, of course, no plastic bags in the car that we keep for such purpose. That would be insane. Why, only last week there were at least three, because we didn’t need them last week. We needed them NOW and there are none.

We are, as is also inevitable, stopped at a set of traffic lights at a considerably sized intersection. We tell him to stick his head out the window. It is the best we can do under the circumstances, until Grumpy can drive forward and we can pull over to a safe place for him to expel his stomach contents.

I tie his hair back, rub his back and speak calmly to him, whilst giving myself a good talking to about not throwing up on the back of the head I’m trying to sooth. I do well. I am becoming immune to this – hurrah!

We arrive home, and he hops into the bath – a hot one as now he is “really cold”. Grumpy deals with the car. I do pretend it is because I am all nurturing and caring and “want to be there for my son”, but really, the thought of hosing down the car will, well, let’s just say going out for dinner would have been a complete waste of money.

I managed to get some more panadol down his throat and encourage him to gargle some sore throat gargle.

This is the bit I couldn’t do. It set him off gagging and retching, which only had the effect of causing me to gag and retch along with him.

The poor little sausage did the best he could before it all got too much and he spewed into the toilet. I near on pushed him aside … but managed a deep breath and to walk out of the room.

The best I could do from there was put him safely in his bed, place a towel under his head and silently wish as hard as I could that there was to be no more spew from anyone this evening. Can we make that “year”?

I get some stuff “right” and some stuff “wrong” and I do yell and swear, and cuddle my kids and watch The Simpsons at the same time, and read books to them and take them to fun places.

I make them lunch every day and cook them dinner every night. Except those times Grumpy Pants does, or my 11 year old does.

I like to think that I’m teaching him good, life skills be letting him cook dinner, and not placing him into some hideous, dangerous position that has people shaking their heads in disbelief at my despicability.

Truth is, I really have no idea how this whole thing will pan out, what my kids will grow up to be like. I have no idea what the final outcome will be. I won’t even know what they will tell their therapists. Thank you Client Confidentiality.

What I do know, however, is that I suck at making rainbow jelly.

Today is my third attempt in the last 12 or 18 months of making rainbow jelly and I have fucked it up. Again.

We ran out of coffee beans.

Also, I hadn’t had much sleep. Again. Thus, I had little energy or desire to drag the three year old away from the third repeat of Thomas the Tank Engine,  subject self to one of his tantrums and walk the 1.5km to purchase my Elixir of Life – a.k.a. coffee beans.

I did anyway. He fell asleep in the pram as I was handing over cash, and we walked to school. Godzilla and Monkey Boy went for a bit of a play, and, typically, as it reached the “you have five minutes” mark and the sky clouded over and the wind picked up and I thought If we don’t leave soon, we are going to get caught in the middle of a storm, Monkey Boy vanished and was unable to be found.

I wander around the school, muttering fuck this, walk up to Godzilla and say “Fuck this, we’re going, he can stay here” and he magically appears.

Typically, we are approximately 6 minutes into our 20 minute walk and the sky opens up and dumps all it has on us.

It’s one of those moments where, by the time you reach a tree that will adequately shelter you, or a shop awning, or rail underpass you are already so wet that there is absolutely no point. So we continue walking home as it continues to bucket down on us.

Typically, also, it is swimming night. So, although I don’t want to, we all have to get changed in order to go back out into the storm and jump in the pool. Then get dried and dressed and walk back to the car along an unsheltered route, because there just won’t be one … and there wasn’t.

Typical

Never have. Which is fine by me.

We do, however, as often as possible with Grumpy working randomly timed shifts and other stuff on after school, have a Family Dinner.

These are always special, Valentine’s Day or not.

Grumpy and Monkey Boy were fixing up Monkey Boy’s bike, where a cable had come loose, and some other bit to do with the brakes had fallen off and got run over by a tram on the way home from school. I was cooking dinner and Chippie and Godzilla were playing around the back yard. Chippie was naked, after having had a shower. It is important to play around in the backyard.

*sigh*

He comes in showing me a millipede and saying “Look at the little caterpillar. He so cute.”

I don’t like crawly things. I don’t like children who bring me in crawly things when I’m cooking dinner and shove them in my face and say “he so cute! LOOK HE CUTE!”

Godzilla collects two of the “button squash” he has grown. They are huge and not buttony at all.

We sit down to eat, Chippie still naked, if you don’t count the dirt he is now covered in.

Mention of Grumpy’s work is made, along with the name and some comments made to Grumpy by a work colleague. This particular colleague, male, is gay and is convinced, I’m sure, that Grumpy is too.  At the very least, he makes some subtle-as-a-train-smash comments to Grumpy; I’m not sure if he things Grumpy is “in the closet” or denial, if he’s making attempts to turn him, or is just getting off on making these comments for fun … no idea.

Grumpy asked if I thought he was gay.

“Of course not,” I replied. “I’m just concerned that this guy thinks you are.”

“Dad’s not gay!” Monkey Boy says, interrupting. “Gay people are sensitive and nice!”

“So why is Dad not gay?” I ask.

“He’s the most insensitive and rude person I know,” Monkey Boy answers, with his cheeky smile and glint in his eye.

In the meantime, Grumpy had been playing with his eyebrows, which I loathe. They look like the love child of John Howard (the ex-Prime Minister on) and Bart Cummings. In a deliberate bid to annoy me, he brushes them out and twirls them around and they look like little horns sticking out from above his eyes. I hate it. Also he has two perfectly good horns he was born with on top of his head and doesn’t need any more.

I threaten to wax them off in his sleep.

He ignores me and had a discussion with Monkey Boy.

A bird flutters past and Monkey Boy shrinks back making a quiet eeeee sound, scared.

Grumpy starts to chastise him about spilling cat food everywhere, when Monkey Boy says “NOOO! I’m scared of your eyebrows!”

I wander inside to get more wine.

And return to hear Monkey Boy pointing at Chippie and yelling “Euww, you’ve got rice on your testes!”

Back into the bath for Chippie, where he spends the next couple of hours wandering around naked whilst we relax and recuperate from the evening’s Family Dinner Discussion.

It was terrible.

It wasn’t a little Light Bladder Leakage from a wayward cough, sneeze or Laugh With Snort.

It wasn’t even my wee.

Or anyone else’s either, for that matter. Which, if I’m honest, does make a nice change.

Nope. It was worse. Much much worse than all of the above.

You see, as I picked my full wine glass off the floor and brought it towards my mouth, I dropped it.

It went all over my pants.

I screamed. Very loudly.

Of course, my family leapt up and raced to my aid; immediate concern generated by my screaming.

No they didn’t. They barely raised an eyebrow. Not even a teensy eyebrow hair. And they certainly didn’t refill my glass.

So, as they completely ignored me, I faced the task of sucking wiping the wine off the couch.

That done, the wet pants were really annoying me, so I removed them at threw them at the laundry door. This is how I know things need to be washed; the pile of clothing, dirty teatowels and odd socks lying around the general direction of the laundry door.

Pants off, I had to negotiate the length of our hallway, clad only in my knickers and pyjama top.

In typical fashion, it is just as I near the wide open front door, but not quite within range of being able to duck, unseen, into the safety and privacy of our bedroom, that a family wander past the front gate and wave hello.

I do declare I need me some more wine …

We all have them. We will all continue to have them. Such is life.

(Is it just me, or does anyone else feel stabby when someone else says that to them???? Excuse me whilst I go and punch someone …)

Whilst I was Technologically Mained and computerless, I had a version of My Story Through Adversity go up on another’s blog – the one over at Adori Studios

Remember a few months back (and thanks to Kellogg’s) I had a couple of photos done for a photo exhibition -  the Through Adversity Exhibition where the stories of 14 women (me included) whom had been through some form of adversity or other where displayed pictorally.

It’s where this image (which I just adore and it does remind me to be inspired) came from, although it wasn’t used in the Exhibition:

 I’m not gonna repeat my story here, but you can read it over at the Adori Studio Blog and where you can see the image that was used for the Exhibition … and which I am going to share with you now.

It is totally different from the above, and completely at contrast to all the other photos that were displayed … it is the one that those involved felt resonated best with me, and with my story and my overcoming of my particular adversity.

It is, so I’m told, the qualities that people like (and love about me) (although not everyone, of course, and that is ok ) and it is what got me through then, and what keeps me going now when shit happens and things get on top of me.

(It is whay many have said about my speaking and this blog)

Here it is … me … Dark and Comic:

How cool is that?!

Totally different, but very me, don’t you think?

As for my last week or two … yeah, it’s been totally annoying and extremely challenging, and  I’ve been a whingy drama queen through it all, but I have overcome all that particular adversity and even got some stuff done, worked around hurdles, fought through challenges and didn’t let stupid technology stop what needed doing.

I just found my way through it …

You?