It all started with basketball, which was at a different time and different location from the one I wrote in my diary at the start of the season as I am so organised and then wonder why I bother when no one else is.

*sigh*

Anyhoo, off we all went. Godzilla is slowly improving, I managed to “be involved” without actually succumbing to coaching by being the scoring person for the second week running, and Grumpy sat and watched and cheered, but no where near as loudly as me. He also watched when, in the last two minutes, Chippie ran onto the court and stood in the middle of the key whilst ten under 10s ran at him with limited coordination and eyes on the ball, and Monkey Boy stood on the side of the court and yelled “Come here!”

Torn between my duty as a mother and my duty as score-keeper, I sent some death stares in Grumpy’s direction and watched in horror as the outcome I had envisaged was thwarted by the referree who just about tripped over Chippie.

That disaster avoided, it was time to go home and get the kids to get some rest before heading off to the guitar concert, and remember to ring gymanstics to let them know Monkey Boy wasn’t coming. Grumpy left for work, his brother turned up just as I’d managed to talk Godzilla into going to bed. By which I mean, lots of cajoling culminating in “I don’t bloody CARE! Just go to bed and REST!”

He left leaving us with just enough time to get everyone organised. I managed my shower whilst Monkey Boy “supervised” Chippie, then it was put him in the bath and contemplate the best strategy from here on in.

If I do my hair and makeup, and even get dressed, then get him out of the bath, the potential for disaster and having to redo hair and/or makeup is high. On the other hand, if Iget him out and dress him, the chances of having to redress him are equally gargantuan. Hmm. Even if I get him out, dry him and put a nappy on him after I get dressed, it still leaves me in a vulnerable state. As it was, I already had to tell Monkey Boy to put his good shirt on for the concernt, then ask him to remove it for fear of Chippie-ing.

And endure much eye rolling from him.

Either way, I’m screwed, so do each of us in stages, ensure Monkey Boy has his hair in a vaguely respectable. Remember to pack snacks, trains, snacks, bibs, change of clothes, snacks, and a drink bottle. Oh, and some more snacks, just in case. Stuff everyone in the car, leaving us with an hour to get to wehre we’re going – plenty of time! Race inside to retrieve DVD that mustgo back today, do a drive  by drop off and head into the city. Which, quite frankly, although it is an exceptional venue etc etc, is a really stupid place to be late on a Saturday afternoon.

As we’re nearing the time he must be there, I pull over two blocks away, park in a half hour metered parking spot, pay the equivalent of three city-priced lattes for the privelege, yell things like “hurryupandgetoutofthebloodycarquickwe’rerunninglateputChippieinhispramQUICK!” before chasing Chippie up the street in my rarely worn heals, and trying to avoid thinking about the makeup I can feel sliding off my face and into my cleavage. Where I was, ridiculously, wearing a light coloured cami. I KNOW not to do this when children are present. My children, particularly.

Eventually get chilldren, guitars, bags and whatever else we need stuffed into the pram with the dodgy, squeaky wheels, think “I really must remember to oil that”, yell “HURRYUPGORUNNOW”, start running in heels pushing stupid pram and turn to find 3 of the 5 doors on the car still open. Leave kids in middle of street with no regard for their safety, run back to car, lock it securely and commence running. Avoid thinking about hair which is going the way of my makeup. And boob sweat. Thankfully am wearing a dark top over the cami.

Race to Federation Square and hope the venue is located nearer us than the other side. The directions only had “Fedaration Square”. Do they know how BIG that place is? And confusing? Of course, it is in the furthest corner. With lots of stairs between us and it.

I must acknowledge the assistance of those around us – thank you ever so much for standing back and watching me and my 9 year old, with a guitar bigger than himself on his back, carry a fully laden pram, including toddler, up something like 9 billion stairs without even contemplating offering assistance. Much appreciated.

(Of course, I later located a stair-free way to get into the  building we needed, but that’s beside the point).

Drop Monkey Boy off with barely a “have fun” and race off to meet others who are coming to see him. Leave remaining kids with one, along with instructions of “buy them a bowl of chips or something or they’ll go feral shortly” and head back to the car, hoping all the while that I did actually secure it and it is still there. In tact. It is. And no parking ticket, so that’s a bonus. Find a significanly closer car park, find children and other relatives, have enough time for a glass of wine and head into the concert.

Monkey Boy and his ensemble were first up then again, first up after the first ‘break’. He did extremlely well, and I was very proud of him. Sadly, despite my telling everyone who would or wouldn’t listen, that he was playing all the big bits in the song and had lots to play and “that’s him you can hear, playing the melody”, you couldn’t actually tell that it was him.

By this stage Godzilla and Chippie were getting a little bit past it. Grumpy rang to say he’d finished work early and is it worth coming down.

Silly question really, as I screamed “YESGETHERENOW!” down the phone and received much frowining from those around us. Can’t recall if I mentioned Monkey Boy was now finished. The Favourite Uncle, who was present for the concert, found himself sitting up the back with my two, then sending me text messages saying things like “your kids are feral, I’ve taken them outside”. Hmmmm.

Then informed me, in the second break, about one deciding he wanted to come back to me, so he just wandered off, and the littlest one finding something he liked and taking off in the direct opposite direction. Like this was a suprise to me.

Just over three hours after the concernt began (and over five hours since we left home) Chippie was asleep on his Aunt and Godzilla was lying asleep on a bench like a drunk. It was at this point they decided ot put the really good performances on, complete with electric guitars, loud bass and heavy rock music. Glad I stuck around, but it woke everyone up.

By “everyone” I mean everyone, not just my kids. Earlier performances had made me quite thankful we don’t own a piano, and reinforced the fact that males are incapable of doing two things at once. Like sing and dance at the same time.

We were released after everyone had received their trophies and had a group photo, we were allowed to go home. Chippie felt he had enough energy to perform an impromptu dance then lay on the floor. In the middle of the doorway as the rest of the concert goers and their families were attempting to exit. Stampede comes to mind.

Wait for lifts, watch as everyone who arrived at the lifts after us pushed their way in to make sure they didn’t miss out. Is it wrong to take a small amount of pleasure in pinning someone to the back of the lifts by their knees with a pram and kicking toddler?

Then hope they have to get out before us?

Pay the equivalent of a small bayside unit to exit the carpark and get home sometime near midnight.

Oh, goody, and we have people coming for lunch tomorrow … that should be fun!