Archive for Daily(ish) Diary
Seeing eye to eye with my plans
Posted by: | CommentsAfter spending yesterday with a fair chunk of the extended family, and my lists (work, christmas, favourite wines) lost amongst themselves (or quite possibly gone to live with a nice family who pays them attention) I advised the Grumpy one that I had a LOT of work to do, and that I require his undivided attention … all focussed on the children.
I got him to make me breakfast as well, then had a shower to myself, for about 13 seconds, when Monkey Boy joined me. Got out when done, jeansed up, aquired a full MUG and again, just to be sure he got it, mentioned to Grumpy that I was working and not to be disturbed.
About 23 seconds after that I heard Monkey Boy yelling quite louldy. “Help” and things like that. I successfully avoided it for as long as motherly possible, raced up to the ensuite and found Chippie had worked his way into the shower, fully clothed, and was having a fabulous time.
Aided the undressing without dripping on the carpet, located MUG and mentioned, just in case he hadn’t quite got it, that I was busy workingand not to be disturbed.
I got approximately 58 seconds, successfully ignoring the wresting noises emanating from the bedroom, when Grumpy comes in and says “Look at my eye.”
Ok, thats really lovely, but right now I don’t give a fuck. Stupid technical things were taking my attention, and I’ve seen the redness of eye before and figured he’d live. Besides, it wasn’t as bad as the phone smashing in mouth I got yesterday. And no sympathy there, either, might I add.
After informing me his eye was very sore several times, I eventually relented and ask that he let me finish this one job and I’d drive him to emergency. There wasn’t any blood, so it’s not like we needed an emergency dash for bandaids. Besides, anal organised type I am, we always have bandaids.
He allowed me approximately half a minute before getting dressed and saying “See ya, I’m going.”
No bloody way was I letting him leave me with the kids in the hyped up state they were in until this job was done, so convinced him I was nearly done and let him do the “Hurry up and get in the car” thing.
Off we head, drop him off and wait in the car for a phone call advising what was going on. Didn’t want to unplug the baby and have bored, tired kids sitting in emergency of the Eye & Ear. By “sitting” I mean climbing on chairs, lying on the floor, eating under-seat chewing gum, loudly expressing desires to purchase and consume hospital cafeteria food and saying “I’m bored!” a lot.
Call comes – a cut on cornea, and a wait of 2-3 hours for the doctor. Please leave me in peace and I’ll ring when I’m done.
So I did all I could do and took the kids to the supermarket to buy bread and milk and a few necessities for dinner (nacho supplies).
Monkey Boy got mildy silly and I advised him if he didn’t stop I would be forced to stab him with a blunt spoon.
“You would really stab me?” he asks, all wide-eyed and innocent.
“Yes. With a blunt spoon.”
“Huh!” he exclaims, loudly. “What kind of mother would do that to her son,” causing a shelf-stacker to snort his high energy drink though his nose, and a nearby shopper to head to isle 6 for a new pack of Tena.
Not home long … just long enough to make lunch and settle down for some quite time … just long enough for us all to have just found our peace … when the “Pick me up pls” text comes in, and off we head again.
Meet Grumpy, large white eye patch over his right eye, and requested to drive to chemist for supplies. Children refuse to cooperate, avoiding saying things like “Arrrr” and “Ahoy there, me hearties”.
Spoilsports!
Grumpy, rendered quadriplegic by a small scratch on his eye, lies on the couch for a snooze. At perfect height for Chippie, fascinated by large, white eye covering and who commences further pokage of eye.
In a “being a helper” kind of mood, I ring and email a few friends having a rough time and start on some Christmas cards.
My good samaratany mood is shortlived when I realise it is evening meal time, which I can tell by screamage of youngest child.
Make nachos (as promised), serve them up and start chopping the provisions for burritos. Task completed, I set the various serving bowls down and ponder loudly about the whereabouts of the nachos.
Guilty looks all around from 3 larger boys. Screaming for more from baby.
Back to kitchen for spoons, and upon my return am presented with small plate of nachos.
Which look mysteriously as though they’ve had the cheese and salsa sucked off them, and some guacamole (made by ME) has been scraped together from everyone elses’s plates and smothered over my serving to hide the fact mine have more kid spit than tasty cheese on them.
Scoff down a burrito and half, all I can manage before baby rubs salsa into his eyes and I have to take him for a bath.
Apparently, Grumpy now has a morbid fear of him.
Either that, or he doesn’t want me to share his stash of good nachos he’s hidden from me.
It’s all about taking the action
Posted by: | CommentsWoke with pounding headache.
Not, this morning, due to being kicked, punched or headbutt by baby.
No, this was a real, proper, pouding headache. I lie there for a bit, attempting to get my bearings and regain some kind of thought process. Any kind of thought process would be nice.
Grumpy reminds me about playgroup and morning tea duties.
He immediately follows this with “Oh, and I’m going to play golf on Friday.”
Might I remind everyone at this point that Friday is the day he has off work. Thus my only day I have the whole day to do my own work.
I don’t think he realised I have a pounding headache.
We had a few, appropriate, words.
Not long after, he informed me that “Ok, well, I’ll grab some stuff for playgroup morning tea on the way home from dropping the kids off at school. I may need to leave playgroup a bit early so I can go to my meeting.”
That sounds like a much better plan.
Manage to get small amount of work done, despite head and stupid, illogical technical issues that seem to crop up when I least need or desire them to.
Grumpy arrives home, has shower and heads off to work, leaving me with Screamer Boy who manages to work himself up into such a state he collapses in my arms and falls asleep. Which is precisely what I’d been encouraging him to do, whilst holding him, gently patting him and rubbing his back, cooing softly into his ear about “going to fucking sleep”. All despite massive pounding head and, now, intense desire to vomit. Complete with overwhelming yearning for things like beds, doonas and super strong pain relief.
Put him into bed where he promptly wakes up, screams some more and I decide to write my entire day off as a lost cause. Along with yearnings for bed, doona and Cuban grade pain relief.
Instead, sit on floor and play some ball rolling game with him and make a list in my head of things I could do that could possibly be more boring. Thankfully, he keeps changing the rules and I have no clue what game he’s playing. So make an iced coffee instead. In the meantime, he’s crawled into my office, trashed the bits that weren’t trashed from his previous trashings, then screams when I take him back out.
Distracted by playing ball again, I amuse myself by picking the ants out of my iced coffee, left abandoned when I went to rescue office. Hang out 7th load of washing for the day, which included the kids’ clothes which have been sitting, unwashed and piling up due to loads created by the Nit Harvest of a few days back, and full day of rain yesterday. I believe they are now down to bathers that are a size too small, and some very old pyjamas left in their drawers for them to wear.
Hanging clothes, Chippie crawling around feet and away from cat food, when it begins to bucket down rain. Chippie crawls further away from me, and further into the rain.
Pounding head and desire to be sick not relieved in any way by drastic change in weather.
At this point, a new emotion washes over me and I have intense desire to defenestrate something.
I’ve done a fair amount of self development over the last few years, and one of the most important things I got out of all I’ve done is “It’s all about taking action”. If you don’t take the action, nothing will happen.
My only problem is … what – or who – do I defenestrate?
First?
Don’t tell me that! News of the (almost) worst kind
Posted by: | CommentsGrumpy not required at work until the afternoon, so taking on the swimming lesson with Chippie duty.
Good thing really, because legs haven’t been waxed in quite some time. So long, I’m embarrassed undressing for the shower in the privacy of my own ensuite! It’s bad.
That load off my mind, I set about getting some work done and pondering how long it will take for the rain to let up so I can wash and hang at least one load of the 896 loads currently sitting in the laundry, the bathroom, the bedrooms, the coffee table and on top of the fridge. Given there’s 896 loads to do, I’m willing to bet it won’t let up for a while.
Grumpy returns home from swimming and informs me (after telling me all week he doesn’t have to go in) that he has to go into work tomorrow. And it’s our turn for morning tea at playgroup. And he has to leave at about 10. which is the time playgroup starts.
Nooooooooo!
I’m just … well, I’m not really a playgroup kinda person. I can think of not much worse than sitting around eating tiny teddies and watching kids do normal every day kid things while parents sit around gushing over how fabulous and genius their kid is, observe the obnoxious child snatch toys and throw sand whilst Mum sips her Earl Grey and shrills “Chartreuse, Chartreuse, sweetheart, don’t do that” and promptly ignores her, whilst president of playgroup (or whatever the hell their title is) lords around, making snarky comment about crumbs in the garden beds and who she’s the only one who vaccums them up.
(Give me wine, nice food and no kids, and I’m happy to mingle with Mums. At least then there’s adult sized chairs that fit my bum. And wine.)
*sigh*
I internalise medium sized tanty and attempt to convince myself “It’s for the baby”.
Dear Diary readers, subscribers and fans,
Posted by: | CommentsDear Diary readers, subscribers and fans,
Just a bit of a quick update, as I know Diary’s posts have been a bit scarce of late. All is good. Very good. Very, very good, in fact 
Apart from being covered in snot, of course.
Anyhoo, two things:
1. We’re (by ‘we’ I mean me and someone I sucked into doing some tech stuff) are looking at a new and more user friendly template for the blog – so it will have a lovely new look sometime soon. And I’ll be able to tell you about other stuff going on.
2. VERY EXCITING! I am this close to being a published author. In fact, so close that I am doing a pre-publication sale of my first book … Mad Cow’s Guide to Bad Mothering (interim title).
If you would like to … actually, scratch that …. pre-order your copy NOW
From here http://www.realmums.com.au/shop/proddetail.php?prod=MCD-BM&cat=21
(And I’ll get back to blogging and diarising and being insane. It’s all YOUR fault. You read and subscribed and encouraged me Thanks 
Mad Cow
xo
That’s more than enough visitors for one night, thank you!
Posted by: | CommentsNit harvesting and house cleaning done, we can finally do the bedtime routine.
Now consisting of “just go to bloody bed, will you!” and psyching self up to do prep-level ‘listening to reading’.
Monkey Boy has mild conniption when “Mu-uuum! He moved my thing!” Unsure who “he” is or what “thing” he moved, but also willing to bet it was diplaced in the bed stripping fiasco of earlier this evening.
That myth laid to rest almost immediately with Godzilla piping up “It wasn’t me! It was my imaginary friend. Mum, it was my imaginary friend.”
Well, I’m terribly sorry, but a plague of lice is all I can deal with this evening. You’re just going to have to invent an imaginary friend at another time. Preferably when I’m slightly less stressed and have had ample time to cater for additonal guests.
Or never.
The Fun of Festivals
Posted by: | CommentsThe screams of children, the wriggling to escape from your arms and do something FUN, the squeals, the mayhem.
All of which sounds like a bloody fun time. I had all of the above at the festival we hosted in our bath this evening. A Nit Harvesting Festival.
I notices a few in the baby’s hair during the day. Even some crawles. When I say “few” I mean a “lot”. A colony. Or perhaps “plague” is a much more apt term to use in this case.
How the hell does a baby get lice?!
I’m going with the standard … “Oh, he’s the yougest, so he’ll get everything much earlier than the other two did. He’ll be exposed to things much sooner than his brothers were.” That’s my excuse, officer, and I’m sticking to it.
So, with him clamped firmly between my thighs, head smothered in cheapo, alleged apple-scented conditioner and a fine-toothed comb running through his barely locks, I was treated to the dulcit tones of one kid whinging “I hate nits, it’s not fair, why do we have to do this again, I’m not doing it, I hate having that stuff in my hair” etc etc and the other lying on the tiled floor screaming much the same.
Geez, coz I love it and am having the absolute time of my life. I wish we could do this every night. I mean, have you ever tried drinking a sav blanc in the bath, with your hands coated in conditioner and a wriggling, crying baby between your legs trying to escape. And you need the wine!
I calmy encourage them to cooperate, with promises it will be over soo … “Yeah, you think I’m frigging enjoying this?! I’m just as pissed off, now get in the friggin bath and let me do your hair so we can get it over and done with. NOW! You! Stop wriggling. You! Stop whinging You! Stop screaming! RAAAAAAARRRR!”
On a side note, nit and lice combs are aslo very good for gesturing with when saying “You!”
Disgusted at number of lice located on baby’s head, make mental note to add this to my mother of the year nomination, manage to hand him to his dad without dropping him, due to conditioner-covered hands, and wrestle with other two, with their screams and sqeals. I can only thank goodness I wasn’t amputating a limb with a rusty pocketknife if this is their level of distress at a mere nit combing.
All moot, as they appeared to have escaped the infestation. Except, of course, for the depraved pleasure I derive from giving them a little payback.
Do own hair whilst Grumpy strips beds, couches and the floor of its mats, empties all cupboards and places them in the dishwasher on the hottest wash and treats the cutlery drawer, nappies, shoes, the cat and TV remote with nit killer – basically, anything that has been near the baby’s head gets a nuking.
He pops in to do his own, whist I wrestle bed clothes and other paraphernalia to the laundry, vainly attempting to keep the armload as far from my own had as humanly possible, and remake absolutely everything. Attempt to give Chippie his pre-bed milk and cuddle whilst precariously perched on the kitchen bench, wondering whether lice can actually live on granite benchtops and, if so, how long.
Discover am now totally paranoid and appear to no longer be itchy just on my head, but everywhere else, as well.
If lice can live on granite benchtops, do they have the stamina and strength to crawl up my body and into my hair? Can they do that?
So, THAT’s what that feeling is
Posted by: | CommentsIn my long, 9 years being a mother, I’ve noticed emotions you rarely come across when you’re not a mum.
Or, rather, more extreme feelings of normal emotions. All the books will bang on and on about the intense love you feel for your own kid, which, pre-kids you think yeah, yeah, I’ve felt love, I know what it’s like and post-birth, you totally get where they’re coming from.
You also become acutely aware that you can experience this intense love, where you could quite happily maim or otherwise kill anyone who crosses your kid, at exactly the same time as you could quite happily leave your kid on the nature strip or send them to work in the mines of Siberia. Or happily maim or otherwise kill them.
It kinda does your head in, that you could have these two extremes at the same time … worse if you stop to ponder the phenomena.
And, after a long day of snot, screaming, kids getting peeved at you coz you laughed when they walked into a pole, you realise it’s the “silly” season (understatement of the last 2 millenia) and don’t have a Christmas list, you realise you’ve got far too much on this weekend, and the kids are banging on and on and on about food and boredom and running around in their undies, shooting at you very loudly because they are Battle Droids and not feeding the cats when asked about a bazillion times, you experience brand new feelings … emotions you can’t quite put a name on.
After several more moments of being shot at, yelled at, whinged at and not being able to find the kaluha (for the cake I’m making tomorrow, not to drink now … although … ) or vodka (not for drinking now … actually, yes, for drinking now) some new feelings and emotions you can find a suitable name to describe them.
Stabby?
Yes, stabby is definitely the word for this emotion …
Laughing at the expense of others is good for your soul
Posted by: | CommentsWalking to school – because apparently it’s “good for you” – with Monkey Boy being all Star Warsy and picking up big sicks and making Lightsabery noises and cutting my head off, and me doing my usual “put the blood stick down, I’m sick of telling you” and Godzilla accidentally getting hit, and hurt, by said stick, me explaining, yet again “This is why I don’t want you wandering around with sticks”, Monkey Boy having restraind tanty, mumbling “Fine then” as he tosses it, then picks up another, smaller stick, when he thinks I’m not looking.
Again we start the “put the stick down before someone gets hurt” conversation, when he points the stick at me and yells “Pew, pew”.
I suggest he do it agian, so’s I can grab the stick out of his hands when he least expects it. He points the stick over his other shoulder, making it harder for me to reach. And harder for him to see what is in front of him.
I reach anyway – for the back of his shirt, so I can prevent the foreseeable. He increases speed and walks DO-ONGGGGGG, into a pole.
I promplty double over and nearly wet my pants laughing.
Well, it was funny! “Funny video” shows play stuff like this all the time. I have NO idea why he got so upset with me and told me I was a horrible mother and the worst one he ever had!
Oh, apparently it’s only funny when it happens to other people that aren’t your kids. Right. I get it now.
Thankfully, Grumpy was there, and gave him a hug and sniggered over his head. Due to the donging or because Monkey Boy was peeved at me, I’m still not sure.
I did give him a hug and check he was ok. When he let me.
Topsy Turvy. At least, I hope it’s not normal
Posted by: | CommentsThe usual pre-5am woke up, followed by a short sleep and rapid wakeup with kick to face, boobs and c-section scar (which still hurts when you get kicked in it).
Grumpy had to be up for work, so I didn’t stop him getting up, whilst I closed my eyes and pretended I was elsewhere. Like Mars.
Sadly 15 month old boys don’t get “pretending to be asleep” and continued to kick various body parts, jab eyes and stick fingers up noses (his and mine). Then scream very loudly, decide he wanted daddy, climb over me, carefully placing pointy knees firmly on boobs, hands on trachea and elbows in various other bits that don’t like being jabbed with elbows, crawl off bed head first, crawl into bathroom, manage to slide shower screen across and climb into shower with daddy.
Fine, except that he forgot to, and is totally incapable of, removing pyjamas. Which also happened to be a one piece grow suit, which we discovered requires two awake and well-functioning adults to remove.
I.e. Not us at that point in time.
Retrieved towel, removed baby and wrapped him to avoid drippage and slippage, he proceeded to scream even more loudly than before (teeth, must be his teeth), kicked some and screamed louder still. Sit on floor hugging baby in pointless attempt to calm him.
He thanked me by doing a huge wee over every piece of clothing I was wearing. And screaming just a bit more.
Sit him on lap whilst attempt to check emails, plan my day and become increasingly pissed off at hubby’s ability to luxuriate in a shower, totally oblivious to the small objects of destruction currenlty residing with us, whilst him on lap throws a soccer ball at my computer and my MUG of coffee is just out of my reach.
Drop kids at school, assuring Monkey Boy that, no, he won’t be the only person that has never taken something to school for his birthday, and that I refuse to buy lollypops on the grounds that it pisses me off when I pick him (and his brother) up and they have them hanging out their mouths. Tempting as the payback would be, I figured that those who sent their kids with lollypops to school to hand out to the class wouldn’t care if I did the same, thus rendering the satisfaction of payback somewhat unsatisfying.
It then occurs to me that I have been a mother for 9 years today, and wonder at the amazement that we’ve all made it thus far without some form of serious injury or death; given I seem to do every bloody thing wrong, like having fed at least 3 of them formula and jarred baby foods at some point in their lives, and sending them to school without any kind of celebratory food to distribute to the rest of the class. Including the gluten free, dairy free, egg free, nut free, flavour bloody free item for the kid who sounds like he should be in a bubble of some sort. Apparently, he can eat lollypops, which is a good thing, because I ate all the mini Snickers bars I was going to send. The stress of it all drove me to it.
(Yeah, like I ever had any intention of sending anything to school! Pffft!)
Return home with Screamer Boy, apparently his new pasttime, and end up covered in snot shortly after lunch, taking something like 3 days to settle him to sleep and get a mere 13 seconds of work in before he wakes and it’s time to go pick the kids up from school.
No cake.
Head for home, dinner consumed and I am then harrassed about birthday present. Am able to relieve him of that distress as hubby has arrived home and I am now able to present it to him. He vanishes, a ‘thanks’ tossed over shoulder, into the Forbidden Room to build his new lego, hubby vanishes to a meeting with the neighbours, the baby screams at me and Godzilla, despite my repeated “no, you can’t”s has turned the TV on and doing whatever it is he feels like.
That done, children bathed and go back about whatever they feel like doing, Grumpy still at meeting, and baby finally collapses in heap afer yet another screaming marathon and his bottle of milk. Baby to bed, I remember something about birthday, and convince Monkey Boy that a MUG cake will be just perfect for his birthday, as it is very quick to make and there won’t be loads left over.
He eventually consents, I handball the job to the six year old.
Well, I had to, didn’t I? I was incapacitated by guilt at the fact this is the first time I have a) not sent a cake (or 80,000 cupcakes) to school for his birthday and b) not managed to co-ordinate myself enough to do a cake of any description for his birthday.
Thankfully, he was too busy with his Lego to care. Then I remembered, I had planned to make him a cake out of Lego … damn, it. I hate it when you get so … forgetful …
They have such great imaginations
Posted by: | CommentsI have declared 2009 Year of the Kitchen Appliance Breakdown.
We’ve replaced the microwave, the coffee machine, the kettle. And the toaster. But that’s only because it no longer matched any other appliance in the kitchen.
Now it’s the dishwasher. Again. But this time, it appears dead.
Grumpy and I had fight over who got to break news to kids, then get them to dry the dishes we had to then wash.
They’re so creative when it comes to not wanting to do something. They’re also very quick learners. After weeks of having to dry dishes by hand some months back, they do know that a tantrum or argument just won’t cut it, and it’s not worth their effort.
Godzilla quickly informed me that the process of dishwasher failure cause sink breakage and he was unable to assist with dishwashing process, because “I told you! The sink is broken!”
Hours of proving sink was, in fact, quite intact and functional extracted semi-reluctant co-ooperation from him.
Sink workage caused Monkey Boy to become a cow, his hooves rendering his ability to be helpful competely useless.
Thankfully, this malformation of his extremities was fixed with a “Hmm, your birthday on Tuesday? I don’t think so if this keeps going.”
Amazing how things like the dishes can be dried quickly and without argument, just by asking the right way.
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.