Archive for advice for parents
Necessary Life Skills
Posted by: | CommentsDay 3 of Not Being Able To Work In Effective Chunks and Week I’ve Lost Count of feeling crap. My head is now full of snot, the cough, whilst relenting slightly and not playing quite so much havoc on my chest and pelvic floor, is still there and my Levels Of Tolerance have all but vanished in a screaming tantrum.
I’m doing my best to hold it together, but fail miserably as Chippie, whom only 13 minutes earlier had insisted – insisted – he put clothes on instead of his bathers, as he usually does Thursday mornings before swimming, decided he could not possibly leave the house in clothes, and insisted, via screaming at me, that he wanted his bathers on.
However, he could not appreciate the need to remove his shoes in order to remove his pants in order to don his bather bottoms and insisites, via more yelling, that his shoes remain on.
As the experts suggest, I got down to his level. And I screamed at him, just like he was doing to me. Clearly, by being all calm and rational I just wasn’t speaking in a manner with which he could relate. I threw in the odd “fucking little shit” and “stop fucking around and make a decision” and he calmly replaced the shoe I had so horribly removed and went out to the car.
I pondered why I even bother with “calm and rational” at any time, and don’t just got for Screaming Swearing Fishwife first up, as it seems to get things happening.
Then I cried at swimming lessons.
In order to do something useful, I rang a local high school to find out some information, and was advised the information and forms I needed were to be completed and returned to the school tomorrow.
Ah, well, I thought, this will kill some time – phew! And we drove up, collected the forms, and I killed even more time by heading to Kmart to purchase some long pants for Chippie that would actually reach his ankles and, therefore, technically be considered long.
I was feeling much better, having achieved something I probably needed to do weeks ago, but with Melbourne weather being so fickle and inconsistent, it was hard to decide whether a few weeks ago was actually a good time for it. Still, it is now done and I can check that off my list.
My Feeling Much Better was shortlived, as the older two arrived home and proceeded to chip away at my resolve by niggling and picking on each other, until my Already Barely Existent Tolerance shattered and I told them if they didn’t frigigng stop I would either walk out the door and never come back, or, if they even contemplated touching each other again, I would bang their heads together so fucking hard they’d be rendered unconscious and if tha’ts what it took to get a moment of peace then I would fucking do it.
Then I asked them nicely to get ready for swimming.
And took several deep breaths.
They were now remotely tolerable and swimming lessons could ensue. Chippie went in for a play during lesson time and all was well. I had the added bonus of a friend there to talk to. So that was nice.
As the lessons finished and all the boys got dressed as quickly and efficiently as possible (Godzilla with the entire back of his shirt soaking wet, Monkey Boy without shoes etc) we were standing out the front, two families, five boys in total, as we mums discussed some catch up dates.
Chippie was running around with his similarly aged compartriot discussing bums and penises.
“Pull your pants down,” Godzilla tells Chippie.
“Leave your pants on!” I intervene. “And stop telling your brother to do shit like that. Seriously!?”
“That’s a necessary life skill,” says Monkey Boy.
“Isn’t it?” he asks, when we look at him, incredulous. “Knowing how to pull your pants down is necessary to get you through life.”
And, although by this point I really didn’t want to, I took them home … with a smile.
Speechless
Posted by: | CommentsI did feel terrible.
But that was three days ago, when my friend, Marita (who blogs about stuff and things at Stuff With Thing wrote a blog post over at Real Mums on loving words, and sharing her dismay at the lack of chat for the sake of chat in her home.
For a second, I was grateful that my children were up for a bit of chat. Just a second, mind, as that inexplicable phenomena occurred, whereby the gratefulness is soon outweighed by the level, content and consistency of chatter.
Monkey Boy took it upon himself to test my level of gratefulness and seemed incapable of shutting the fuck up! After some time, and possibly at the moment my eyes bulged out of my head and spit flew from my mouth in a rage of requesting he do, indeed, shut the fuck up before I shove yesterday’s socks in his mouth (again), he stopped talking.
He reverted to a series of rather annoying noise.
“Oh, come on!” I say to him. “Please. Seriously you’re really starting to piss me off now.”
“Oh, I’m not talking,” he advises me. “This is the noise I make when I wind down my talking.”
Butter knives do not penetrate the heads of annoying eleven-year-old boys well. Just saying.
Anyhoo, that was days ago. And he hasn’t shut up since.
Today, we had our usual basketball run (finals have started) and parkour (cancelled today) and were kicked out of our house this afternoon for another couple to come through and have a look at it to see if was suitable for their family.
We wandered up the street, bought some milk, got rained on, got even more rained on as we head home, arriving at 2.23pm with the agent and couple now gone. Chippie was fast asleep (thank goodness, he’d been feral all morning and I suspected he was not all that well), so Grumpy carefully lifted him out of his pram and carried him inside. There was no card from the agent on the table, and we hadn’t heard from them. I sliver of comprehension entered my head.
It was disrupted by Grumpy’s phone beeping at us … informing us that, indeed, the inspection is at 2.30p.m. and not 2.00p.m. The agent pulled up at that time, confirming this. So we bundle the sleeping Chippie back into the pram and set of out into the rain again. Monkey Boy has not stopped talking this entire time.
I switch his voice off so I may hear Godzilla say something to me about not liking something he was enthralled with last week. I’m not entirely sure what it was, as Monkey Boy’s incessant chatter drowned most of it out.
“Doesn’t he like that any more?” Monkey Boy asks me.
“I don’t know, I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Shut up!” I reply.
“Mwahahaha,” he says. “My evil plan is working.”
“What is this ‘evil plan’ of yours?” I enquire.
“I don’t think I know you well enough to give you that information,” he tells me, seriously.
“Well, given you nearly came out my vagina, I think that’s a pretty poor reason, to be honest,” I reply.
…
…
…
…. ah, silence, how I love thee …
Bringing back school memories
Posted by: | CommentsLego Club started up at school again this week, and required a responsible adult to be in attendance.
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 am not immune
Posted by: | CommentsI had hand, foot and mouth disease once.
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”?
What I do know
Posted by: | CommentsI like to think I’m pretty ok as a mother.
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.
The List of Christmas Grumps
Posted by: | CommentsIn light of all the fun (I use the term loosely) I had with my dearly beloved and the Christmas Present Wrapping Festivities of earlier, I came up with a list of people who should be rounded up and shot sent away to Arsehead Island for a while.
People who say “I don’t want anything”
I don’t care. It is Christmas and a time of giving, and I, personally, like to use this opportunity to say “thanks” for whatever it is you have done for me this year, or just say “I love you”. Of course, I don’t have to at this time of year, but I choose to.
When you say “I don’t care” you are depriving me of doing something that makes me happy. So fuck off and tell me what you want. You’re creating more stress than necessary.
People who say “this will do” during the purchase and/or wrapping process
“It’s the thought that counts.” Bullshit … you have put no thought into this at all, and you are depriving one person of feeling just a little bit special and loved.
I know I’m a bit over the top with this “gifts” thing and not everyone is like it, but a little effort really is appreciated.
People who are so angsty about car parks that they yell at you and won’t move out of the way when you are trying to leave the place because you were organised!
I just want to leave. Please get out of my way. I know you’re paranoid, but, really, not everyone is after your spot.
People who are trying to return the biscuit cutters they purchased because they are the “wrong shape” and have opened the packet, and do not have a receipt, then throw the cutters at the chicks behind the counter
Check the shapes before your purchase. Or, I dunno, maybe try being a bit spontaneous and give different shaped cutters a go. Or keep your receipt.
The absolute arseheads who open the little packs of Lego Minifigures and either steal the little person inside and/or put the opened pack back in the box … you are an arsehead!
I don’t like you much at all. The whole point of the minifigures is the surprise and it’s no one else’s fault your child is a spoilt little arsehead brat and that you can’t cope with a frigging $4.50 minifigure tanty because “it’s not they one little Brohdee wanted”.
It is disappointing and annoying when you go to grab some and half the figging packs are open, and you get to the checkout and discover, despite your efforts, that you have managed to grab an opened and pilfered pack and have to leave your 3 year old at the checkout and race back to get an in tact pack for your kids because they can cope with not getting exactly what they want.
You are an arsehead!
Those who affect a grumpy nature at this time of year, every year, as though it is expected of them
It’s psychosomatic people. This means “it is all in your head”. Get some help for that, ok? Preferably before next year. Thanks.
The overly cheery
If you’re going to be so fucking bright and festive, the least you could do is share your prozac milkshakes or hash cookies with the rest of us, ok?
Or stop faking it and get on the boat with the rest of the Grumps.
The very complicated uncomplicated cake
Posted by: | CommentsMonkey Boy’s Family Birthday Celebration was today.
This is the one held each year that consists only of extended family, and is separate from his Family Celebration (me, Grumpy and the other two offspring), which is separate again from the one that has his friend’s in attendance.
Each of my children have this series of celebrations. Because I’m an idiot.
The reason we don’t have more children is that I am far too busy baking and decorating cakes to be having sex. The fact I’m waving knives and spatulas around and swearing about the fact there are other’s in my “fucking kitchen” may also have something to do with it.
My children have a penchant for suggesting ridiculous ideas for cakes. I shall blame them, anyway. Usually, it is I that thinks “Hey, a Taj Mahal would make an awesome cake!” and I do like a challenge. Now the kids are old enough to suggest ridiculous cakes, I let them.
Which is how it came about that this year’s cake for Monkey Boy was so very complicated.
He said, “I’d like a [something something that made no sense to me what so ever] this year.”
All I know is that it had something to do with Star Wars and my eyes glazed over.
I took in the Lego Star Wars detritus littering all possible floor space … sadly I wish I could say it was because all his creations had been pulled apart, but no, they were all in tact. There are just too many of them.
I contemplated the various ships and vehicles and thingies with wings and wheels and sticky outy bits and droids and stuff and imagined that his request would be one of those.
He told me again, “No, I want a Geonosis cake.”
“Uh huh,” I said.
After some days of still having no clue as to what he was talking about, and him having no hope in Hell of explaining it to me, we Googled it.
“That’s it,” he said, pointing to a picture.
“You can’t see it very well. What is it? How am I supposed to do that?” I ask.
“It’s like that,” he says, pointing again. “Only without all the people!”
“That,” I ask, with as much incredulity as I was unable to suppress.
And I thought, he’s frigging deluded if the thinks I can be arsed doing that!
Much eye rolling ensued. By him, not me. Sadly.
“Geonosis is a planet, Mum!”
It never ceases to amaze me how much “jeebus you’re an idiot” can be loaded into so few words.
“Oh, right, of course. I knew that. I was just pretending,” and accidentally ran over his foot with my office chair. Because he deserved it.
Now I was really stuck.
This cake essentially called for, well, a cake, baked in a round tin, with no requirement to reshape, cut bits off or otherwise butcher.
It also appeared it would require a chocolate icing and … um … nope, that’s it.
Given I don’t just flip through a book and decide a cake I like, but actually make up shapes, or alter the directions given to me, I wasn’t sure how well I’d cope with a round cake. With chocolate icing.
I had to make it way more complicated than necessary, so I thought I’d authentic it up, and grate some chocolate to sprinkle on it. And sift some cocoa over that. And some around the cake so it looked like those rings around the “planet” in the first picture.
Still, it wasn’t really challenging enough, and I finished the cake before my first MUG of coffee was even cold. Usually, it takes 2 goes in the microwave, 3 hours and one mouthful before I’m done with decorating a cake.
*sigh*
Monkey Boy completed the decoration to his liking, as I’m far to ignorant to have done it myself. I just had to be content with getting on with the other preparation required for our guests’ arrival. Preparation involved me dancing around the house, screaming “I have a fish scale in my hair!”
Which is why I shouldn’t be allowed to help when Grumpy is much more adequately preparing for our guests’ arrival.
My cake, despite its simplicity, still looked nothing like it was supposed to.
Also, the chocolate and cocoa I had so delicately sprinkled over the top was blown across the table and into our guests’ eyes when the candles were blown out.
It was very yummy however.
The Confession Conundrum (or Sometimes Mum Screws Up)
Posted by: | CommentsI screwed up.
And now I’m in a quandary.
You see, well, here’s what happened. On Friday night we had dinner and sat down to watch a movie; Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2
Yes, an M rated movie I let me 10 year old and 8 year old, oh, and my 3 year old watch. Also my middle aged husband, he was allowed to watch as well. But that is not my confession. Nor do I have an issue with it.
No. I had a hankering, so I grabbed the pack of salt & vinegar chips, and carefully and evenly distributed them between five bowls. I did now want to be accused of giving one of my children a salt grain more than another.
I kept back a handful or so, which I intended to stash away so that I may indulge in a Salt & Vinegar chip sandwich when no one was watching.
Upon hearing the opening of the chip packet, I was immediately set upon by all manner of child (and adult), climbing up legs, and pulling on arms and getting in my face and saying “Can I have some, can I have some?” like I had served up five, equally proportioned bowls with the intent to deprive them of salt & vinegar chips.
Seriously? Do I need to explain everything? Apparently so.
The chips were devoured and spread over the couch, and the movie entertained us.
I performed the usual Saturday morning ritual of saying “Did anyone actually eat any chips, or did you just spread them all over the couch for fun?”, basketball game, meet Grumpy at gymnastics for a child dump and head off to breakky with a friend.
Upon my return home, lunch had been consumed by all remaining in the household, and I had only just eaten a late breakfast so was not hungry. By the time 2pm rolled around, I was hankering for that salt & vinegar chip sandwich.
Lo and behold … the packet was gone! I searched high and low, and it was nowhere to be found. I figured Grumpy had put it out of the way somewhere, when he’d be preparing for the Saturday morning open for inspection.
By happenstance, I glanced in the bin and discovered an empty salt & vinegar chip packet. My cranky pants were working their way on, but I retained a high level of poise (calm, not the panty liners) and gently enquired as to who ate the chips.
“I won’t get angry,” I promised. “I just want to know where they went?”
Denial. Denial. Denial.
“No one” ate them.
I set upon Godzilla, as he has a propensity to lie. Sometimes, it is his interpretation of the question. Sometimes, it is an outright lie, that even upon being found out, he will still not confess to.
Take, for example, his farts. They are distinct. They are also worthy of inclusion in the “Crimes Against Humanity Manual” and his bum could quite easily be sanctioned by the American Armed Forces to aid in the War Against Terror.
He will, wide-eyed innocently, deny any gaseous emissions from between his emaciated buttocks. And continue t deny, deny, deny when it could not possibly be anyone else, as they have all passed out from the toxicity of said emissions.
So I let him in on how much I hate being lied to. I reinforced this point a number of times. And still he denied.
“Oh, well,” I said. “There will be no Wii, no DS, no computer until whomever did it confesses. I will not be angry that they did it. I will be angry about being lied to.”
And left it at that.
Grumpy and I gave the situation a forensic going over later that night and concluded that the only person capable of having the ability to eat said chips, unwitnessed, was the real estate agent. Highly unlikely. Godzilla had no opportunity, Chippie could not reach and Monkey Boy … maybe, but it would have been a push.
It was a mystery.
Then it hit me, a day later … um, it was highly likely that it iwas me. No, not a late night snack, or some sleep-eating. Just that the “oh, we have an open for inspection tomorrow and … oh, fuck it, I’ll just empty the pack now.”
Being heavily distracted by a three year old attempting to climb my leg, lest he miss out, and an 8 year old attempting to wrench a bowl from my hands and the like, the thought didn’t really penetrate my brain.
And I forgot that it ever happened.
My conundrum?
Do I fess up?
Or will this lead the rest of family to taunt me with it for years to come and they’ll not respect the infallibility of my memory every again?
I have no problem saying “sorry” if I ever stuff up (rarely of course! 
) … will my status in the household take a nose dive, or shatter before my very eyes …
Surprise! Again. The guitar concert.
Posted by: | CommentsThe craziness continued to day, with the music school’s end of year concert. This year, there is no highly organised concert of last year, where they kids wore black pants (proper pants pants, not jeans or trackies … highly stressful), white, long sleeve button up shirts (highly stressful, and which I had to borrow as *ahem* my kids don’t own one, not even a too small one that I purpose bought five years ago) and a black bow tie (that we had, no stress).
Instead, the school had organised a “fun day” complete with face painting, jumping castles and foods high in sugar and salt. We were invited to forego the morning session, but arrive in time to have a run around, jump around, face stuffing frenzy before being asked to sit for two hours and listen to other people’s children play music.
I knew little else, and had been somewhat removed from the guitar practice scenes in our house. This was the best tactic for all, as I found myself providing instructions about an instrument, and method of playing it, I had little to no knowledge of. Aside from listening to it a lot, I know bugger all about music in general.
Also, the stress levels were revoltingly high and much “go and practice” and “I am” ensued. So I backed out. We set up a rule about practice, they had a time and I walked away … and everyone lived happily ever after.
The shared guitar teacher (that is, both kids have the same teacher) thought it would be an absolutely brilliant idea to have the kids play a song together at the concert.
I asked, “are you fucking insane?”
And thus the stress of practice returned to our home, mostly in terms of getting them to sit in the same room together for longer than 7 seconds. Monkey Boy, of perfectionist, control freak, and “I’ve been doing guitar longer than you” fame spent much of this “practice time” picking on the way Godzilla sat, held his guitar and wore his hair and pants.
They shut up and did it when I lost the plot at them one day. Not because they weren’t practicing, but because they were both at each others throats using that really fucking annoying high pitched voice children affect when they are pissed off but trying hard not to yell.
I can’t stand it, it pushes all my buttons and I have to put a stop to it by whatever means necessary.
Practice now back on track, I back away. Again.
We are called to our seats to witness some potential famous musicians in the making, and some that probably won’t make it past next week. We felt it highly important that our 3 year old eat a ball of sugar, twice the size of his own head, in the process:
He moved onto the over salted popcorn, happily sitting at my feet whilst we watch the performance.
After several thousand acts, Monkey Boy was called up on to the stage, set under a marquee. He had had his face painted. As a skull. Surprise, surprise.
And he played incredibly well. Again, a surprise, the Imperial March from Star Wars on acoustic guitar.
Godzilla and their teacher accompanied him on stage. After weeks of Guitar Practice Trauma, I was left speechless as to not only how well each of them played, but how well they played in unison!
I never thought it possible.
Godzilla remained on stage with his teacher, where it was announced he was playing Deep Blue and I was reminded of how hands off a parent I had been in this whole process, as I not only had no recollection of what he was to play, but also could not recall hearing him practice it.
I know he did. I had just switched off.
Also, the main theme at ever lesson was his inability to keep time, and it was something he was asked to spend much time on (and, *ahem* I was asked to assist him in – pahahahaha) and I had a gut clenching moment of “Oh, shit, what’s this going to sound like!” as I sat there, watching him on the stage, settling himself to play.
Deep Blue, as it turns out, is the theme to Jaws, which is highly reliant on timing in order to sound like, well, the theme from Jaws.
He pulled it off! It was brilliant (for an eight year old who has only been playing since February and has only had his electric guitar since the end of April).
And thus concluded the end of my crazy week and weekend – with a big smile on my face that wasn’t sugar- and or alcohol-fuelled.
Just pure Proud Mamma!
Also, I concluded that it was my total apathy/removal from their practice sessions at home that allowed me to surprise me and put a big smile on my face. Take that, Michael Grose!
Give them the opportunity to surprise you
Posted by: | CommentsOur school has signed up to some Michael Grose/Parenting Ideas thing. Apparently for some tips and shit on parenting. Possibly because I need all the help they can get.
I had a “quote” of sorts, from this Parenting Ideas thing, flash up at me daily for about the last 5 days on my twitter feed that said “When was the last time you gave your kids an opportunity to surprise you?” and a link to an article that I didn’t read. Possibly because I didn’t click on it.
Anyhoo, today was craziness. Stupid hour basketball game at the stadium furthest from our house – the far side of Jupiter, I believe, which was canned at half time because it was held in a government school hall which, not surprisingly, leaked when it rained. The coach from the other team approached with “You can keep playing but we refuse to” which I thought was a fabulous strategy on his part.
Our team’s parents, so it seems, are more along the lines of “let ‘em play, they’ll learn” and “toughen ‘em up” and the like. The other team’s players raced around the “highly dangerous” court and had shots as mums and dads packed up jackets and thermoses and the rain eased and the roof stopped leaking and we bitched about not being able to continue and why the hell did we get up so early.
I was banned from returning home, as our open for inspection was during the gymnastics phase of our crazy morning and I was instructed to “keep away”. I believe ”Under pain of death” was muttered under his breath and “there will be no wine ever again if you return before midday” as he hung up. I got it.
We did delay the inevitable by taking something like seven wrong turns to get to a large shopping centre I haven’t visited in ages, therefore had no idea where anything was, to purchase a birthday present for a party this afternoon. At 2.00pm. Or maybe it is noon until 2.00? Or something like that, but pretty sure it was a 2.00pm start.
Locate a Kmart, purchase present, decide am hungry, place Chippie in trolley as refuse to carry him and purchase one item from Coles, which Chippie simply must retain complete possession of. Head back to car, walk through considerable puddle, fill shoe with water and wet pants up to my knee. But only on one leg, to ensure maximum comfort.
I then got to spend the time listening to “Can I play Angry Birds now?” every 7.3 seconds with a squishy shoe and wet leg. That was fun and didn’t make the time drag at all.
Eventually, we were able to leave, at which point I feel it may be a good idea to check my calendar for exact time of part. It is, indeed, a 12 noon start. Grumpy calls at precisely this time to inform me the party commences at noon, and, oh, by the way, the way I come home is completely blocked with roadworks. Leaving me one way which is disgustingly busy just post 11.00am on a Saturday morning, or the alternative, which is equally horrendous.
I have 40 minutes to get home, eat, nag an easily distracted child to shower, get dressed, wrap birthday present and write on his friend’s card before leaving again. This could take several hours.
Make it in plenty of time. But of course!
Head off to birthday party pickup then on to second leg of gymnastics fun, a la final competition for the year for Monkey Boy. Godzilla cries at the party, causing Birthday Child’s Mum much distress, and we make it to gymnastics before the “I NEED A Car Park Or I Might DIE Or worse, have to WALK!!” chaos commences.
Now we get to sit through three hours of boys gymnastics, and “Can I play Angry Birds?” ever 4.2 seconds. That question is alternated with “I’m hungry”. At which point I lose the plot and threaten to purchase two sausages in bread that I don’t want, and subsequently threaten to eat both of them where he can watch me do it!
Monkey Boy screws up his first apparatus – the floor routine – which leaves my stomach squirming with anxiety. He doesn’t do mucking up well and I am rather impressed that he not only completes his routine, but does it extremely well. He then goes on to his other apparatus; rings, pommel, vault, highbar and parallel bars, with equal aplomb.
The day concludes with us enduring witnessing the awards ceremony, whereby every participant receives a medal. Would hate for anyone to miss out. This year, they also awarded place medals, which was nice.
Monkey Boy’s team received a silver medal for their level (Level 2). Not bad considering Monkey Boy is the team, being the only boy from the club performing the Level 2 routine. They/he received a silver out of two teams. Inspiring.
The other team (Geelong) had four kids in their Level 2 team. And the third team had no one, so they received no medal at all. So, ner.
After randomly selecting levels to award; Level 1, then 3, then 0, then 2, they changed the order to an equally random one and awarded individual medals for each Level’s participants.
Unexpectedly – random will do that to you – the Level 2 individual awards were called out. I readied myself with the camera, and sorted out Godzilla on the video camera. A Geelong team member received bronze. I smiled. Then a Geelong team member received silver.
And I thought “Oh, well, he did great today anyway,” turned my camera off and put my hands down.
In my defence, I have no idea how it all works, and figured cos he’d mucked up his first routine his overall score would be a bit dodgy. I mean, you forget one teensy thing and a point or two can go just like that!
Thus it was that I was completely unprepared when they called out his name as having achieved a gold medal for his performance this year.
T’was a proud moment.
And all he wanted was a sausage in bread.
Delivering hope to those of us on the frontline of the parenting battlefield, the MadCow Diaries have helped mums like me realise that there are no perfect parents (and if there are they are incredibly stressed strange people) - it's okay to do it your way without the guilt ;) And you are not alone.