Archive for dear husband
Appropriate High School Behaviour
Posted by: | CommentsThis morning was another morning of gymnastics for the pre-schooler, which involves much of him running around and participating, but not in any particular order, making farting noises and saying “I just fart and fart and fart” whenever he has to bend over or … well, just whenever he feels like it really.
Today heralded a massive achievement where he actually climbed the ladder. It is a ladder (obviously) against a wall that generally has something tied a couple of rungs above the children’s height that they have to climb up to to pat, play with or make a noise come out of. It is also surrounded by much safety-type stuff and one of those squishy gymnastics floors that cause you to bounce when you fall off stuff. This may not sound like much, but he has been anxious and refusing to climb the ladder.
His is, however, not adverse to climbing onto our stonetop benches in the kitchen, without fear. Often, he will perform a screaming tantrum up there as well. Usually in relation to being told “no” in relation to such thing as marshmallows. We determined the gymnastics setting was just far too wussy for him and not nearly enough of a challenge. Also, there are no marshmallows.
So that he did it – and without encouragement, rather, he insisted he do it himself – was pretty amazing.
Then he said “I do fart and fart and fart” as his bum lined up about my face height.
Who said my kids aren’t talented, huh?
Arrive home where we eat and I am provided with zero opportunity to do anything that I need to do.
Big kids arrive home, Grumpy Pants arrives home and I remind them all – because I’m so excited and keen to go along (possible sarcasm) – that there is a local high school open day/night thing with tours of the school. Yay.
We decide to forgo the 45 minute principal’s address (which, just saying, is kind of offputting. A ten minute principal’s address, surely, is adequate? A 27 second one would be apprecaited) and just arrive ‘late’ for a tour.
The tour is conducted by a VCE student rep, sports captain, student in immaculate uniform. I want a real high school kid, so at least I know where the illicit smoking behind the toilets occurs and I can warn my overtly anti-smoking son away from those areas. I want to know that maths sucks, Japanese blows and art is only good for learning to grafitti and sculpt mashed potatoes. I want the real story about high school, because I feel what I’m being sold is nothing like the high school I went to, and I’m pretty sure they haven’t changed that much.
As we waited, the kids ran off and did some jumping off things and clibming over things they probably shouldn’t be jumping off or climbing over.
Chippie yelled out, just as the school principal came over and said “hello and welcome” and some other teacher wandered past, “Let’s play the Penis Game!”
“Yes,” I say, as the Super Student, Principal and Teacher look at me. “He did say ‘penis game’. I don’t actually know what the ‘penis game’ is, but you did hear right. Is the tour starting soon?”
And, thankfully, it does. There are bowls of lollies distributed around tables in each of the classrooms we are allowed to enter, and my children appear to embark upon an unspoken competition whereby they are each to devour as many lollies as is humanly possible – or as it is appearing, humanly impossible.
Grumpy Pants enters a discussion with a year 12 student in what we used to refer to as the “home economics” (or if you were cool, the ‘home ec’) room, and was left behind as he wouldn’t shut up.
Finally, we come to an end. The children have gone completely nuts thanks to excessive sugar intake, we are handed an envelope full of brochures and information and we’re sent home.
And I still have no idea what I’m doing …
A Quiet Family Afternoon, Police Pursuits and Donuts
Posted by: | CommentsMy family and I were involved in a minor car accident yesterday afternoon. No one was injured, and we’re all fine. It did, however, result in a car chase, police involvement and three hours at the police station to give a statement. They lovely police offer who took my statement wasn’t much chop on the computer, and we had a chat about being a police officer, and what being a writer was like (me, not him). I also discovered that police statements are exceptionally boring, and my mind has the ability to create – stories, scenes, dialogue, excitement – of its own accord.
Given I was forced to endure three hours with a bad typist giving my statement on a minor-ish incident, I have chosen to give another statement here, that is hopefully much more exciting. For the purpose of good story telling, I may have embellished slightly. Ok, a lot …
Another intense pain shot through my lower back.
I’d coerced the children into massaging it for me, but knew the pain was a result of three days of lots of sitting and very little physical activity. Despite an overpowering urge to indulge in an afternoon nap, I felt the best thing to do was go for a walk. An amble. To meander along a beach, or perambulate the local river … get out of the house and wander aimlessly.
Besides, boredom was setting in and cabin fever had settled upon the household. Homicide was imminent in one form or another, should we remain housebound.
My Darling Husband leaps into action, and informs us confidently “I know just what to do,” in his deep, reassuring tone …
We corral the children and bundle them into the car, where they sit quietly, cherubic with their blonde curls framing their porcelain features and highlighting their large blue, angelic eyes.
(Not really. They have brown hair, albeit curly. One with long, one with short and the third with ‘out of control and needs a cut’. They do have large blue eyes though, and ‘sitting quietly’ may have been a blatant lie.)
Off we set, my Darling Husband controlling the large, red vehicle we own, and the children and I singing tunes from various musicals in perfect harmony and an even more perfect key. My immaculately coiffed blonde hair sitting in place as I bobbed around, conducting the singing trio in the back seat.
(Ok, just setting a scene …sorry … no children’s ears were harmed in the making up of this scenario due to my singing, I promise …)
Slowing the car as the traffic lights ahead turned red, and the line of cars ahead of us stopped, we came to a compete standstill, when BANG! A car had run up the back of us.
I whipped around my short dark hair whippping around also, and smacking me in the eye hair remaining in place, to check the children were ok. They are such brave – and still angelic – souls, who remained calm and said “We are ok, Mummy, please do what it is you need to do.”
My slender, muscular and barrel chested husband exited the car to assess the damage and calmly and politely exchange details with the offending driver.
(“Barrel chested” possibly, in previous years. He still is ‘barrelish’ just it may have slipped below his chest and being held in place with his pants’ waist. He was calm and polite though.)
After completing my concerned-motherly duties of tending to the physical and psychological wellbeing of the Cherubic Children, I, too, removed myself from the confines of the car, my magenta and lime polka dotted dress emphasising my slender waist and voluptuous bosom.
(Jeans and t-shirt. Also, I have no waist. I do have the voluptuous bosom though, so that counts, right?)
I confidently strode towards the rear of our vehicle, in my matching magenta stilettos, which only served to accentuate the slenderness of my legs that went all the way to my pert bottom.
(Black runners ..)
An elegant being of the deepest chocolate brown (much like the colour of my favourite Lindt chocolate) and giraffe-like stature extracted himself from the car behind. I was in awe at his velvety skin, almost the colour of the black leather jacket he was wearing. He seemed out of place amongst the traffic, the rundown buildings and expansive apartments surrounding us. Also the silver chain hanging from his being, and the black pants that were sitting just below the orbs of his scrumptiously rounded buttocks weren’t helping.
Two more equally Kenyan coffee bean coloured men emerged from the vehicle, as my husband conversed with the spindly, yet incredibly tall, driver. It transpired that he had no licence on him, nor was he coherent when it came to insurance details.
My Darling Husband and I shared a glance, because sometimes we can communicate without words. I strode confidently back to the car, my magenta heels (black runners) clicking on the concrete footpath, my stylish dress swaying around me, causing a hypnotic swish-swish-swish as I moved. It was a graceful 1950s style, modest, and covered my protruding posterior as I reached into the car to retrieve my mobile phone to call the relevant authorities.
My brave husband was conducting conversation with the driver, as I was with the operator at 000. The two colleagues of the driver appeared behind me, not too close, but there, and I was overcome with a conflicting feeling of awe and overwhelming fear that my life may very well be in danger.
(Actually, it didn’t cross my mind, and I didn’t feel unsafe at all …)
The slender African returned to his vehicle, and reversed it around the corner to “get out of traffic”. My Darling Husband followed, and at this precise moment, the phone disconnected. I calmly, yet quickly set about making another, and my Darling Husband runs around the corner. He has, however, transformed, and is now wearing tights with his underpants over the top, his slender legs and barrel chest highlighted by their tight-fitting lycra casing, his cape flapping in his wake.
“Get in the car!” he yells to me. “He’s done a runner!”
I leap into action [and I can't decide whether to go 'damsel in distress' or 'heroine' in the 'hero' not the drug sense, so I'll go with 'female super hero' if that's ok?] rip off my dress and leap into the car, wearing a brightly coloured and blingy leotard of sorts, which does more to serve the purpose of emphasising my slender waist and voluptuous bosom than the aforementioned dress did. My knee high red boots command respect, and my hair cascades in auburn waves around my shoulders, but appears not to impeded my vision or, indeed, move at all as I tip my head forward and say “Fuck, what the fuck, why isn’t the fucking phone fucking ringing. Shit!” as I attempt to dial emergency again.
Darling Super Hero Husband performs a U-turn, avoiding any more misgivings and takes chase. We locate the car in a side street as I am reconnected with a 000 operator and shout out directions with such confidence that they cannot help but adhere to my requests.
“Um, Footscray, no, wait, sorry, no Maribyrnong, oh, fuckit, um, where are we – no, no, no it’s Kensington! Yes, it’s definitely Kensington …” and I am now in control and relay directions as we proceed after the car that had almost, but not quiet, escaped.
I am transferred to a Very Important Person who will listen to my ramblings directions as we continue to chase; all within legal speed limits and the welfare and wellbeing of our children our topmost priority, the trees and buildings a blur as we drive past …
Thankfully, the other driver, albeit speeding, remained within slightly less dangerous speeds. You know that speeding most people do that is definitely over the limit, but is still speeding but “everyone is doing it’ – that speeding. He was also obeying traffic signals.
There we were, stopped at a set of red traffic signals, in the lane to turn right, some three or four suburbs away, with the Very Important Person on the other end of the phone informing me, calmly, that “No, we haven’t got any police near you, but we have dispatched someone” and my heart sinking and thinking “fuck that!” and all kinds of horrors going through my head, particularly as the operator before this guy had said “Do not get out of your car. Do not approach him. Keep yourself safe. Keep your windows up.”
Hmmmm.
As I take a deep breath to still my resolve, I heard the police sirens. Their urgency giving light to the seriousness of the situation, and five cars, lights flashing, sirens wailing swooped upon the silver car in front of us, blocking his path. A helicopter flew overhead as police, flak-jacketed and authoritative, leapt from their vehicles, guns drawn and yelled “Get out of the car! Keep your hands up!!!
(Ok, that made it sound a teensy more exciting than it was. It was one car, and it did fly past, lights flashing and siren blaring, and strategically block the car in front of us. There were no helicopters. The police did jump out, bedecked in all their policey glory, high-vis vests, guns holstered etc, and approach the car, one on either side. One did remove his can of capsicum spray and they did say “Get out of the car! Keep your hands up!” but more like “Keep your hands up, please, where we can see them. Now if you could step out of the car, please?” They were authoritative, too, though.)
We were asked to wait while the questioned this guy on the side of the road, and pat him down to make sure he wasn’t carrying. Then we were asked for some details and then asked to go to the police station so we could give a statement.
The children remained cherubic. If you consider “Oh this is so cool! Can we do this every weekend?!” ‘cherubic’. They also knew enough to keep our secret, super hero identities a secret. We had somehow changed back into our ‘civilian’ clothing before the police saw us.
The driver of the other vehicle was placed in the back of the divvy van, which was parked erratically partway across the intersection, and driven away. We drove ourselves, in our minimally damaged, but still damaged car to the police station.
Monkey Boy immediately approached the Constable on the front desk and said “Do you have any donuts, I’m hungry?”
(Ok, maybe not … is what I wish I could say, but I can’t, because he really did do this *sigh*)
We waited around until they had the man/woman/policeperson power to take our statements, and the children sat calmly and quietly whilst we waited.
(No, they were bored within 23 seconds and Chippie was jumping off the couches.)
Eventually, I was escorted into an interview room, where my statement was taken by a police officer who was on the scene and whom had limited typing skills, and I was near tearing my hair out watching him – you know how it is when you’re forced to watch someone type and it frustrates the hell out of you and you want to take over? That.
It took some time. Not because I am an elaborate story teller, but because he was a slow typist. Thus, we entered the conversation about being a police officer and what it is like to be a writer. I did offer to type the statement up for him, and told him it would be a much better read than what we actually had on paper, but apparently the courts don’t want a ‘good read’ they want a factual statement.
Grumpy Pants (aka Darling Heroic Husband) had been taken to a separate interview room to give his statement.
Three hours later, the kids having had the waiting room TV turned on and given control of the remote control, a packet of chips and a couple of iridescent coloured slurpies (but not donuts) from the 7-eleven next door (how convenient!) we were allowed to go home.
It transpired that the car that had hit us had been stolen some weeks before, and that the driver had been breath tested and blew 3 times over the limit.
Then I made pizza (in a gorgeous frock, also 1950s inspired, stark white with large, black spots, protected by a frilly apron adorned with colourful fruits, and my perfectly coifed blonde hair completing the image of domestic bliss) in my pyjamas.
A step closer to Mother of the Year and some spew
Posted by: | CommentsFirst day back at school today. And it wasn’t without the stock standard “I feel sick” from Godzilla as we’re participating in the morning’s Get Ready For School fun activities.
“Just hurry up and get dressed,” was my reply. It is my usual reply. and usually comes accompanied by a FFS-eye roll and a quick glance to make sure he really is ok.
After one more attempt and the response being “Have you unstacked the dishwasher” he gave up. He knows I don’t buy into bullshit. Also, he was well and truly able to annoy both his brothers, older and younger, and to adequately piss me off enough to inform him he was pissing me off and to “hurry up!”
The older two boys rode to school and Chippie was delivered to childcare, where he cried as we crossed the carpark, and ran off, ignoring us, to play outside with his friend who arrived at the same time.
Meh.
Whatever.
What occurs next is entirely my own fault. You see, Grumpy Pants and I went for a walk to get some milk, as ours had run out before I had my coffee this morning. That, in itself, may very well have accounted for my low bullshit tolerance levels and general grumpiness. On our way home, we stopped and had a quiet coffee, and some really lovely time together.
“It’s nice not to have to wash any bedding today,” I say.
And I go about my day as he goes off to work, and it’s suddenly time to collect the children. I walk up, feeling a sense of achievement after having completed much of my To Do List and two of the 38 loads of washing still to be done.
Monkey Boy rides on ahead, and Godzilla happily chats to me about his day (“What did you do at school today?” “I can’t remember.” “Oh, right ….”) and races off after his brother.
Oh, happy days.
I arrive home many minutes later, as my legs are not bicycle wheels, and they are happily devouring any food-like substances in the Tupperware laden cupboards.
“Unstack the dishwasher,” I say to Godzilla. “We have basketball tonight.”
And I go and do something mildly less mindnumbing than arguing with an eight-year-old about household jobs.
I check the time, see I have ten minutes before we need to leave, and see Godzilla lying on the couch, under a blanket.
“Dishwasher,” I say, because it is all I need to say.
“I have a headache,” he whines at me.
And so on and so forth with the “I’m sick” and wishing he’d use his imagination and come up with something less boring than “I’m sick” or, preferably, tell me the real reason he doesn’t want to go to basketball.
It ends in tears, his at this point, when I confront him re going and ask why he wants to even play basketball if every training session and game he is coming up with excuses to not go, and if he does like going (which he has just told me he has) then why it makes him cry, and why he thinks I would force him to do something he doesn’t want to do (aside from the fact I really like basketball and have been most supportive of this particular fancy about playing a ball sport and he will frigging enjoy basketball because I like it, so there!) and if he doesn’t stop crying soon, I will not take him because I don’t want to be doing something twice a week that neither of us want to do, and even typed up a text message to the team manager informing her of his inability to play this season, showed him and said “Do I need to send this or are you going to smile and show me how much you want to go to basketball!!!!????”
(Then I had a little cry as he went and put his shoes on … I’m feeling it today!)
Off we go, collect Chippie and arrive at training, where Godzilla promptly runs on court and does a few layups. I’m just relaxing into the fact that he really isn’t unwell, when he comes out, crying and says “I have a headache.” He’s crying a lot.
Hrm.
Dubious, because he is rather talented in this area, I suggest he go and watch his team train, and I can keep an eye on him and this alleged ‘headache’ and ‘sickness’. Sure enough, he sits and looks sad, and next time I look, he’s running around. This goes on for the next 40 minutes.
He does look a little ragged and tired at the end of it, but, hey, don’t we all? He looks like how I feel, so, you know … we’re all just tired.
Off we go, heading home, and he’s happy but quiet. Suddenly, but subtly, a minute from home, he puts his hand over his mouth.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I feel sick,” he mumbles.
“Like you ‘feel sick’ or ‘you’re going to vomit’? Let me just get around the corner and pull over.”
I do get around the corner, incident free. Of course, I cannot pull over, because it is evening and everyone is home from work and parked out the front of their houses.
“BLEEUUURGH!” says Godzilla, vomiting all over himself, the dashboard, the seat and the floor.
And my handbag!!!
“Bleaargh!” he says again, with added chunkiness.
Rinse and repeat.
I have the car, at some random angle, off the road-ish, but on the road-ish, the carseat covered in ick, and him standing on the side of the road.
Thankfully, the half-arsedness of my children net a ‘wipe up’ towel, three pairs of Godzilla sized board shorts and a discarded water bottle full of water. This from out trip to the beach yesterday where whomever had been asked to pack the swimming bag had grabbed a handful of stuff that the beach towels were on and dumped it in the bag.
Half-arsed children do have their uses.
I wiped him down, washed his hands, gave him my drink bottle and got him to change his shorts.
He was crying and crying.
“Why are you crying?” I ask. Not in a “shut up and stop sooking” kind of way, more just to see exactly what it is that he was upset about, and to rule out any significant pain strong enough to cause tears.
“Because I told you I was sick and you still made me go to school,” he sobbed.
Yes, I want to say, because how am I supposed to know you’re really sick when you keep fucking lying to me about feeling sick, and when you are able to annoy everyone and ride to school and home again and only ‘be sick’ when it’s time to unstack the dishwasher or do something that you don’t feel like doing at that moment? I didn’t fucking know! OK?
I hug him as best I can without getting ick on myself, and apologise and just have to slip in a lesson: “If you’re going to keep lying to me about being sick, then this is what will happen,” I say.
Although, I’m also highly aware that the more horrific of the consequences are aimed directly at me, as Grumpy Pants is not home, and normally I would say “can you just go do the car whilst I make sure he is ok and put him to bed?”
Noooooo. Karma, I suspect, is having a little fun.
You see, under normal circumstances in this situation, the child would throw up at school and a mother would only feel mortified at having the school contact her. Instead, child has thrown up in the car with only the vomit-adverse mother to take care of it!
Thankfully, I have had Monkey Boy at home cooking dinner, and Godzilla hops in the bath of his own accord and I set about tending to the vomit ridden car.
I don’t do too badly and I clean it out well.
I return inside, manage more of Godzilla’s tears and his request to eat dinner because he is hungry (I’m not surprised. The only think I’m surprised about is that he didn’t vomit up his own toes, given how forceful the five or six episodes were) and I relent and allow him some plain pasta for dinner, before sending him to bed.
At which point, I pick my phone up to alert Grumpy Pants to the home situation.
There is vomit on my phone.
And that’s when I lose it …
Mixed Up Muddled Up Day … with Style!
Posted by: | CommentsDragged myself out of bed, cos I really didn’t want to get up, but I was wide awake and there was what appeared to be a demented warthog lying next to me. I could tell it was demented because of the horrendous noise emanating from it.
It wasn’t demented, or a warthog, but my husband. Same same? Whatever, the noise was still ghastly.
After a screaming tantrum over wanting porridge for breakfast, which is exactly what he got in the first place, Chippie went through his usual process of carefully portioning his oats and yogurt into equal parts; the table, the floor, the chair, his belly, his penis (naked breakfasts are the go in our household) and, one can only assume, into his digestive system. He then proceeded to demand the toast I’d put in for me, and happily much away at it, distracted so I could cook my own toast and be afforded the opportunity to, at the very least, smear it in peanut butter with strong hopes that I will get to eat it.
I did, but Chippie noticed me relaxed and with a smile on my face, and asked very politely if he could have some, before ripping it from between my teeth and consuming it. It was at that point I realised he still had half his on his plate, and he was still going for it.
I am unsure as to why my weight loss is not greater than it otherwise should be.
Which I need, in particular, for today, as I am off to the Mix Apparel Fashion Event with celebrity stylist Kai Aiyub.
Not without first experiencing the morning swim lesson with Chippie, and attempting to explain to him we need to leave now, now, NOW, so I can at least be showered before heading off to the Fashion Event. Restraining a soaking wet three-year-old is never fun. At least I had ‘getting changed soon’ to look forward to.
I showered, dressed and off I went, arriving at the Fashion Event at Coles in Taylors Hill where I was met by the very Kai Aiyub himself. Most chuffed was I, when he looked at me and said “Hey, I know you!” … because prior to that I was more than a little terrified of meeting fabulousness.
After watching the Active Wear and Smart Casual attire paraded in front of us, I was whisked up on stage, then taken out the back and given a top and pants, chosen for me specifically by Kai (which I’m guessing is how he knew me 
– stalking me and what not) and a cutesy little scarf to put on, before being invited out on stage again for the assembled audience. Oh, and some cute little ballet shoes, too, which I would not normally choose, but think I will change my mind on that.
Then he put a hat on me 
Am super impressed with the outfit, and will wear it, so long as it finds its way to my floor so I can choose it from there. Also, it fits my boobs nicely, without making them appear huger, drawing attention to them, or gaping, so that’s a bonus
Then I went and bought two pairs of leggings (but not to wear as pants, I promise!) because it was warm and I’d changed back into my jeans. But kept the top on because it was rather comfy and I quite liked it. So the black leggings were to go with the new top, and the grey leggings in the pic are a bit thicker and were in the car …
(I also noticed, with great pleasure amongst the immense range of attire they have, from active, to casual, to dressy etc, were jarmies! YAY!)
I had to get a photo with the Mix Kombi as well, because … I don’t know, I just did.
See if you can pick which is me … I know, I just blend right in there with the models stuck on the side …
I have to say, Kai is hilarious (well, I don’t have to say it, as in ‘I’m being told I have to’, but I have to say it cos he was just funny! And I was super impressed with how he spoke to and treated people; no judgement, no real reference to weight or words like “look better” or “look slimmer” etc. He just made everyone feel gorgeous; the way he spoke to and interacted with them. It was really great to see.
A quick interview on camera for A Current Affair ( to air this evening, although I’m not sure if they’ll show my bit – but the camera man and sound guy recognised me from previous segments, so that was pretty funny) and I did some shopping (the aforementioned leggings and will be back for more stuff when I get some proper time) and sat around to watch the next show … which was just as fun as the first, even though I wasn’t part of it 
Home, where I am harassed about frigging Minecraft and the obtaining of for my eight-year-old and remembered why I couldn’t wait to be out of the house this morning. He’d started that “Can we get Minecraft” sometime last September and he hasn’t stopped since the beginning of the school holidays. He kicked it up 35 notches this morning.
Grumpy Pants took them swimming, and they arrived home to my preparing a meal which I decided to invent … because I can.
Crumbed parmesan chicken drummettes.
Grumpy said it won’t work. I ignored him.
Monkey Boy came to investigate. “Is that something new you are inventing?”
“Uh huh,” I replied, very proud of myself.
“Are you trying to give us salmonella?” he asks.
Hrm …
Still, I looked good and felt comfortable whilst I was doing it … so that’s a good thing, right?
Here’s a photo of Kai and I:
Rantus Interruptus
Posted by: | CommentsThree kids, no voice, a late ‘can you come into work please’ for the hubby and school holidays.
Needless to say, this makes for one tired and grumpy mamma.
I entertain the children as best I can. Most of which involves me saying “Please stop asking me questions. I cannot answer you. You are making my head hurt.” Then I run out of energy to do much else.
Grumpy is let out of work early and arrives home. He is in a jovial mood. I am so far from ‘jovial’ by this point that the Grand Canyon sized gap between our levels of jovialness is evident.
All credit to him, he recognises this and makes some good attempts at resolving the issue. Unfortunately, his attempts rely on being a smartarse to ‘lighten the mood’.
The gap widens.
I commence making dinner, and they’re all hovering around the kitchen “What’s for dinner?”, “I don’t like that”, “I want milk”, “Why are you doing it like that?”, “Show me your tits”.
“ARGH!” I said.
Only it came out more like “ !”
I roughly grabbed an onion, slammed the chopping board onto the bench, yanked a knife out of the knife block and vented “Just. Fucking. Stop. I’m tired, my throat hurts, my head hurts. I’ve had him whinging and crying all fucking day, I’ve had him at me all day about his fucking iPod, he will not fucking shut up and stop asking me questions, you come home and just hassle me and won’t fucking shut up and I’m just …. FUCK!”
The last bit was because at precisely that moment I sliced through the top of my ring finger with the knife, and missing the onion completely.
Then I cried. It had nothing to do with the onions.
“Give me a look,” says Grumpy Pants, calmly. “Do you want a bandaid?”
“No! I want you to get out of my fucking kitchen!”
I really, really hate it when you’re in the middle of a good rant and you’re interrupted.
I never even got to finish what I was saying.
Humph.
Grumpy poured me some wine and Godzilla tipped his dinner onto the decking just outside the back door. Everyone felt the need to comment on it’s uncanny resemblance to vomit. I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.
To Laugh or to Cry? Or to Vodka and Lime?
Posted by: | CommentsToday, I lost my ability to laugh out loud.
It was, at times, a bit of a ‘meh, nothing’ day, and other parts where somewhat stress inducing.
And one bit was particularly funny. But I couldn’t laugh.
My laryngitis has kicked up several notches, and whilst it is not an uncommon ailment with me, it is the worst it has ever been.
Grumpy Pants and I, with Monkey Boy and Godzilla, wandered up to childcare to drop Chippie off for the day. Then it was off to Puckle Street to purchase a birthday gift for a party Godzilla was attending later in the morning. We bumped into a neighbour on the way home, who made a comment to two that were quite funny … and I laughed, and nothing came out.
It was quite distressing really.
From there on in, the voice got worse. Grumpy Pants went to work, taking Monkey Boy with him and dropping him off at a friend’s house for a sleepover (that bit, obviously, was not bad) and returning Godzilla home.
Godzilla was in one of his Cheery Moods, which is not much fun for someone who is wavering on Uncheery. Or, even, someone who is in a state of Average. He bounces around, sings, dances and says “penis” a lot. He is LOUD, and doesn’t realise it.
Some days, it brings a smile to your face, to see him play with such uninhibited abandon and have so much fun. Today is not one of those ‘some days’. Today, every bounce on the floorboards and each word of his happy song is causing my brain to cringe in pain. I can’t even yell from my seat to “please be quiet, you’re breaking my brain!”
I get up, and have to try to grab his arm, gently, as he bounces around the place, so I may say “Please stop” where he can hear me.
“WHAT?” he yells.
My head finally packs it in and I go and have a lie down, issuing strict instructions to Godzilla about being very, very quiet.
I have to drag myself up to go and collect Chippie from childcare, Godzilla asking me lots of futile questions along the way about his new obsession, Trash Packs, and if I know such and such, and what so and so does.
Although my throat is not sore, per se, I go to make up a lemon and honey drink. We are out of lemon. Also, the chicken I got out of the freezer for dinner has been put in the fridge and is a frozen lump of ice, still, and the bench is scattered with sausage rolls that Grumpy Pants has made.
I text him re dinner whilst searching our groaning-with-unripe-lemons lemon tree in vain hopes of finding one ripe enough to use.
I make a lime and honey drink, which is remarkably revolting, and Grumpy rings me.
“Why would you ring me?” I ask, incredulous.
“WHAT?” he says. “Can you hear me? I can’t hear you. CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
I sigh as loudly as possible and hope he gets the gist.
“Oh, yeah,” he says.
Then, “See you later. Bye …. bye … bye, hello, are you still there? Can you hear me …. BYE!”
A vodka and lime is looking good.
Sadly, I used the lime in the Revolting Drink.
I toss Chippie in the bath, and when I come to collect him, he looks to throw a sopping wet facewasher at me.
I yell “NO!” but what comes out is a muted squeak.
The phone rings. Godzilla sits and watches TV. I have to race out and point rapidly and attempt to communicate “Answer the bloody phone!”
He does. Unfortunately, if he does not immediately know the person on the other end, he just says “Who?” repeatedly, then goes blank and either hangs up or hands the phone to the nearest … living being. Including, but not limited to the lopsided goldfish or the cats.
He handed it to me. Good thing as it was an important call that I needed to have. I had it as best as possible.
After this, I’m giving up. Things are not going well.
I do what I can with what I have, and use the only form of communication left to me.
I serve up three large bowls of ice-cream and put a movie on.
Then send Grumpy Pants another text saying “Please hurry home, so you can read to Chippie!”
Relative peace for the next hour and a half.
Boring Old, Normal Family Fun Day
Posted by: | CommentsSo … after yesterday’s adventures, Grumpy Pants and I felt it would be loads of fun to re-commence our Family Days.
Our aim is to do one every Sunday; get out, away from the house, do something fun or different or just spend the day as a family. We haven’t had one for a while.
Obviously, part of the fun is that I have woken with a slightly snotty head and mucousy chest, and no voice to speak of. So to speak.
Walhalla, and the historical goldfields railway was the chosen option. So I create a lunch of peanut butter sandwiches and carrot sticks, and off we go.
It is a very long drive. I am very tired. I try to sleep. I keep getting spoken to each time I try. Godzilla puts his arm on the arm rest of Chippie’s seat. Chippie has a conniption. I would yell at them. But I can’t.
We eventually make it to the historical train station, where Chippie is so pantswettingly excited he nearly stops breathing from speaking in such high pitched tones, pointing out the one diesel engine to me, repeatedly.
Monkey Boy has achieved that age where being seen with your family is so not cool. Also, Family Days suck, and he doesn’t like anything we do. On principal.
Godzilla has forgotten his jacket. The very jacket we asked him 35 times to get, but each time he found some new and exciting activity to partake in. Dancing naked to Sexy and I know it whilst filming himself on his iPod; playing Trash Packs with no pants on, but with t-shirt and socks in place, that sort of thing.
The trip from one station to the next is relatively uneventful.
At the other end, Chippie and Monkey Boy go to watch the train uncouple and so some shunting. Chippie trips over his feet and stops himself on the bitumen platform with his nose and upper lip. There is blood, but not much. He screams at a lady who approaches as I’m cuddling him, and says “It’s ok sweetheart, mummies can fix everything.” She leapt back in terror as he snarled at her.
Grumpy Pants wandered over as I’m hugging and consoling Chippie.
“No,” says Chippie. “I don’ wan’ you!” and climbs into Grumpy’s arms.
“Fuck you,” I say, but I’m not sure who to.
No one can hear it anyway.
Grumpy, Godzilla and Chippie wander off to where they’re not supposed to be to look at trains, and I chat to Monkey Boy about stuff. And things.
Then I see some awesome looking tree stumps and condemned buildings, so I get my photographer on and ask Monkey Boy to jump in the photos. Not, you know, literally jump. Rather “climb up that bit. I don’t care if it looks dangerous, climb up there. Now do this …” and I pull a pose he is supposed to emulate, but says “no way!” instead.
Then we realise the train is probably wanting to go, and everyone else has gone, so we race back to the platform, to find Grumpy wandering towards us, yelling “hurry up!”
Monkey Boy races up onto the train, Grumpy and I following. We hear the conductor say “Is that everyone?” and Monkey Boy replying “Yup, quick, go!”, and she saying “What about Mum?” and him saying “Don’t worry about her.”
Cheeky little shit.
So we make them walk whilst we go in search of coffees and hot chocolates. This has the opposite of the desired effect, causing them to play nicely with each other, with a significant dose of added silliness.
Much “settle down” and “seriously, stop it now” is voiced. As best as I am able to voice it.
Chippie, clearly a little over me saying “I’m seriously getting stabby, stop it!” turns to me and says this:
Cheeky little shit.
(For those who didn’t get it, he said “What, whatcha gonna do? Stab me?”)
We make them walk some more, up stairs, down hills and back to the car, where we just make it as they’re locking the station up. Godzilla throws a plastic bottle into Chippie’s face, because “he is singing a song I don’t like and won’t stop.”
Welcome to my fucking world.
Then it’s the long drive home (we oft forget that however far we drive, we have to drive that far back), a dinner of pastizzi and salad, because we really need to go shopping again, and somehow we are out of pasta. Still, if you serve pastizzi with salad you can pretend it is a meal.
Just saying.
Monkey Boy kills some time whilst dinner is cooking, asking me about g-strings, which I cannot answer as I hurt too much, so I show him a pair of mine; delving into the very back corner of my knicker drawer where I’m fairly sure remain a pair from several lifetimes ago, then he puts them on and runs around the house in them. Chippie finds this hysterically funny and asks Monkey Boy to make his undies do the same.
Awesome. I’m tired, I’m snotty, I’m sore and I can’t speak and I get to watch two sets of bum cheeks run around the house.
Family Days are so much fun …
Bloggers Family BBQ Day
Posted by: | CommentsKids Business was at it again, only this time they’ve opened their Bloggery event up to blogger’s families.
It has it’s pros and cons … but as I’m regularly nagged to death by my eldest about “when are we going to another of those blog thing day things” and “when can I have my own blog” I thought I’d force them to come along with me.
So, today, after desperately needing a sleep in and not getting one, we head off to this Bloggers BBQ at the PowerHouse alongside Albert Park Lake.
I was accompanied by Grumpy Pants and my three children, only shortly after we arrived Monkey Boy vanished and I was regularly seen with Darth Maul (apparently of Star Wars fame and which I would know if I “was a good mother”) from then on.
He even had it written on his name tag, which were rather impressive, I must say.
Monkey Boy Darth Maul and Godzilla made the most of the samples that Lenard’s Chicken and McCormack’s were offering, then Godzilla helped himself to approximately 500 litres of Cottee’s cordial. Before lunch.
I, instead, went for something far, far less painful than dealing with my children at such a fun event, and had my eyebrows waxed, in public, whilst someone, I don’t know who as my eyes were shut, took photos …
(Ironically, it was Nads, who had featured prominently in my antics of yesterday, before the Digital Parents Dinner … so there you go! Funny!)
Chippie made the most of Ella’s Kitchen and her little coloured ball filled playground, and remained there for the majority of the function.
A Target fashion show and “styling” session went on up on stage, which I glanced up at only to witness Monkey Boy Darth Maul walk in with both hands full of food samples (after the delicious lunch we were served) and plonk himself in the seat, front and centre of the stage, and proceed to stuff his face under the noses of the waifs up on stage.
Repeat.
Three times!
I didn’t know if I should be proud or horrified.
So I just laughed. Again whether it was because it was funny, or a result of that horrible infliction I have where I laugh when things are pretty bad, I’m not sure.
The gorgeous Livinia Nixon was MC for the day, so I had a photo with her and asked her what the weather was to be like tomorrow as my husband asked me to ask her, because he was too wussy to. She made a good point of singling him out and asking if he was with me from across the other side of the room. Nice.
She was also treated to a photo with Darth Maul.
Then it was time to leave, which meant locating and rounding up all three children, extracting Chippie from the ball area, where he decided to help pack up and refused to go until all 8 jillion balls were bagged.
This pretty much left us last to leave, and allowed Godzilla time to collect whatever balloons were left lying around the place.
Children, goody bags and balloons packed in the car, minus one that just happened to be Chippie’s and caused much distress and screaming all the way home.
I was ready for bed when we arrived home. The children, however, decided to create a Zeppelin with the balloons, which had been cut free from their moorings and were scattered around bedroom ceilings.
The did manage to create a floating ship of sorts, only to let it go to see if it worked.
It did …
Thank you, Kids Business and all the companies involved in today’s Blogger’s BBQ. We had a great time.
And just in case … um, sorry!
Like Son, Like Father
Posted by: | CommentsI stumbled out of bed this morning, staggered to the kitchen and fumbled about for my coffee.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of one of the balloon machine guns from yesterday’s adventures. Bits of it had popped, other bits had shrivelled and it was looking decidedly like a large, jaundiced penis sitting on my kitchen bench.
I rub my eyes and look again. Nope, still far to phallic for my liking. So I rub my eyes again, and again, with no effect, so I wander into my office, MUG in hand and do some work.
I’m left in peace for several hours, until just before lunch when I here “Hey, hey, hey, look at this,” from Grumpy.
I do hope he’s referring to my lunch that he has made me.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t. And he just had to come in and show me how clever he was.
*sigh*
I send him off to work after lunch, and collect the big kids from school, issuing instructions to Monkey Boy about the cooking of dinner, and getting Godzilla organised for basketball training, when it happens again.
“Hehehehehehe, ” I hear Monkey Boy titter. “Look, my balloon looks like a penis!”
It was just like deja vu.
A deja vu I would quite happily have wiped from my memory.
I often like to think Monkey Boy is wise beyond his years … but if I’m being honest, I really do think that he and his father are both infantile.
“Welcome home, mummy!” said the lice.
Posted by: | CommentsAnother day in the car; 9 plus hours driving from Sydney to Melbourne.
T’was lovely to be able to do this without having to stop for more than a coffee and a quick wee, nor to have to turn around and say “do you want me to pull over and leave you here?!” every seventeen minutes or find a safe spot to pull over for a piddle because they didn’t need to go while we were actually passing through a town, but were suddenly busting just as we hit the 110 kmph zone just past it.
T’was lovely to have Chippie running up the hall and out the door, yelling “Mummy, mummy! Is mummy!” when we pulled up out the front, to have Monkey Boy rifling through the goody bags as we’re trying to unload them onto the nature strip, and Godzilla rummaging through whatever leftover snacks there were from the drive and spitting them at me as he said “oh, hi”.
I was allowed inside, gave a kiss to Grumpy pants, and was immediately thrust back into Normality.
Dinner, complaints, standing on toys and bath time, at which point Chippie says “mine head hurt”; it could be a bump, or it could be he is coming down with a virus, given both Grumpy Pants and Monkey Boy have recently had one.
Or … NOOOOOOOOOOO … “nits” I think as Chippie walks ahead of me, scratching his head profusely and saying “mine head itchy”.
I strip him off, plonk him in the bath, smother his head with cheapo conditioner and begin combing.
Oh, yeah. An infestation. Fun.
I continue combing, add some treatment, and yell at Monkey Boy for the 804th time to come and get in the frigging bath so I can check his hair too. I hate checking his hair. It is now to his shoulder blades and curly. Which generally equals some version of knotty. Urk.
And he whinges a lot.
He, too, is infected. I add treatment to his hair whilst, yet again, request he stop bitching at me about the lice issue as I am not fucking God and I, too, am pissed off about the entire situation and him bitching and complaining and saying I’m hurting is not helping me feel any better about it.
Grumpy is seconded to the shower to wash Chippie’s treatment out and I am subsequently seconded to the bathroom to remove him safely from the shower, now containing Grumpy, Monkey Boy and Chippie.
I open the door and hold his hand to help him step out.
At this point, Monkey Boy and Grumpy Pants bickering at each other, Grumpy inexplicably turns the shower head (quite possibly to shut Monkey Boy up) and I am hit, full force in the right tit with a shower-spray of water.
I scream! One of those really girly, surprised screams.
This does little in relation to having the spray turned away from me, or, I dunno, the glass shower door shut, maybe?
So I scream again. Grumpy laughs, and Chippie says “You wet your pa-ants!”
I spend the hour I’d like to be in bed reading combing Monkey Boy’s hair, small segment by small segment … and dream of when my next break will be …
You rock, Doll.....thanks for such awe inspiring honesty and brilliant laughs.