Arrive home at just before midnight last night, to discover older two children still not home, having apparently organised a sleepover for themselves at friend’s house.
Quietly entertain resentment that I finally have a great night out and he manages to shirk his fatherly duties, without even trying.
Out for breakky with hubby and Chippie, and go and collect children from friend’s house.
Attempted maniupulation to either stay longer or have friends over to our place. Sensed extreme overtiredness and prevented any further discussion by commencing the Extraction Process, whereby I indicated, several times, the need to leave, and walked out the door some 47 minutes later. I record, I believe.
Arrive home and attempt “quiet time” for entire family, which no-one seems able to co-ordinate. Monkey Boy, after some minutes rest, gets his second wind and proceeds to cut my head off with makeshift lightsabre, constructed from the stick part of a cheapo plastic trident, the handle from a Bob the Builder screwdriver and kilometres of sticky tape.
He then aids me in removing the bandaids covering blisters on my heel, ripping them off as quickly as possible and attempting to stick them on my face. He called it “payback” but I prefer to suggest he was being a bloody little shit. He called in backup from younger brother, handing him the bandaid, holding my arms and asking Godzilla to stick them on me.
Course, it takes a Mum. All I did was say “Can you please put that in the bin for me?” and off he went.
It was all I could do to not stick my tongue out at Monkey Boy and say “ner” – and that was far too much effort, so I didn’t bother with that, stuck my tongue out and said “ner”.
Then called him over for a cuddle, ripped the bandaid off my other heel and stuck it to his cheek.
Mummy – 1, Kid – 0
Chippie’s flatness had turned to severe clinginess when we arrived at destination yesterday afternoon, complete with a fever, and a not very nice sounding cough.
Dash to local chemist before bed to get hands on some baby panadol, which we had neglected to pack before leaving home yesterday morning.
Pandolled up before bed, where he slept on the loungeroom floor with Monkey Boy and I, and he slept like a log. Until about 2.30, where he woke, burning hot, cried a bit, made his way over to me, gave a horrible, seal-like cough, lay on me and promptly fell asleep again. A hot little bod against mine, and hot little head wedged into my neck, I found it difficult to return to sleep myself. Torn between letting him sleep and getting up to get some more panadol for him, I chose the let him sleep. Another awful cough in his sleep then quiet.
A little too quiet.
Far too quiet for my liking at this hour of morning. I held my breath, because that’s what you do when you need to listen better. I could hear breathing. I’d ruled mine out, because I was slowly asphyxiating, but was sure I could only hear one person breathing. Attempt to determine which of my two son’s it was.
Just short of passing out I established that both, in fact, were breathing and still alive, my panic returned to normal and I eventually drifted back to sleep, toasty warm from toasty warm baby lying on top of me.
Sleep was short lived as he awoke again not long after, still hot, still coughing horribly and I contemplated getting up and driving to nearest hospital so they could do something with it. They’re much more knowledgeable about these sorts of things, and, quite frankly, I don’t want to be responsible for babty who frightens bejesus out of me at Stupid O’Clock with horrible cough and lack of breathing.
Decide at 6am that that is exactly what I’m going to do, get up, get dressed, give him some panadol for his temperature and go and inform Grumpy where I’m going. He decides to accompany me, which sets of more concerns relating to the likely length of time we’ll be away, the fact that Godzilla has no idea that we’re leaving and how they’ll be with relatives that we (unfortunately) rarely see for who knows how long … an hour, 6 hours, a whole day?
I’m supposed to be on holiday! Aren’t holiday’s about relaxing and not worrying about the stresses of the day to day? LIARS! Big. Fat. Liars!
Off we head, locating the hospital (went there as it was 6am and a weekend – and we had no idea where else to go). No one in emergency, except for a crazy lady who kept talking about Jesus, so we went straight in, Chippie diagnosed by an extremely tired looking doctor who, I’m hoping, was about to finish his shift and not start one, with croup, given whatever it was he needed and we were sent off home again with a prescription. Back to our destination within the hour!
And then the day began … visting, musuem, Parliament house, wineries …. all in the plan.
Flat out with a software thing I’m trying to get my head around, school holidays and Grumpy – a teacher – working all of the first week of the holidays, my day is somewhat hectic.
Thankfully, only two children home, but a meeting in my kitchen this morning and Monkey Boy being dropped off before lunch. Mobile phone playing up and ringing or telling me there’s a message when it feels like it, I notice a missed call, no message left, and two messages; confirmation of a “play date” this afternoon, and dinner this evening.
No drama, Monkey Boy will be home in plenty of time for us to go grab Grumpy Pants on the way to the activity centre.
Meeting finishes just on lunchtime, and Monkey Boy not yet home. Ah, well, “lunchtime” is relative, and we still have 2.5 hours before we need to leave.
He’s not back at 1, or at 1.30. Or 2pm. And I start to wonder whether I was to go pick him up before lunch. Quite likely, now I think of it. Can’t quite recall the arrangements, as brain was full of lots of … other stuff.
I figure the polite thing to do would be to ring and assure friend’s mum I’m on my way, pack snacks and changes of clothes, ring Grumpy to let him know I am coming to get him. Can’t find phone number, so just head over.
To an empty house … hrm. Race home, ring Grumpy again and ransack house in search of phone number that was written in 7 year old on a scrap of paper and never made it to the address book.
During process of ransacking it does occur to me … I’ve left my son in the care of a lady, albeit a very nice one, who’s phone number I don’t have and I have no idea where they are.
Consider perhaps should be slightly more vigilant.
Check any left messages 5 times; You have no new messages. Please stop bloody ringing. You know you’ll be notified if you have a message. Did we notify you? NO we did not, so please fuck off and stop bothering us!!! It’s not our fault you can’t find your son.
Last ditch effort, I recall a missed call earlier on, from a familiar looking number. The number of someone I’m surprised didn’t leave a message. Ring it, expecting a male work colleague. But, no. It is school friend’s mum!
Hurrah.
Apparently, she did leave a message. And I wasn’t told. She left a message saying she was taking the kids out after lunch and to ring if there was a problem. She didn’t hear from me, so took the kids out.
At least I know where he is … and considering asking kids to nominate me for Mum of the year.
Grab Grumpy, who, despite my leaving home late and him telling me he’ll “be ten more mintues” was another 23 minutes, and off we go to outdoor activity play centre.
Grumpy taught Godzilla how to catch pigeons, by luring them in with the snacks that I’d brought, while Chippie sat by and sucked on some peppercorns that had fallen off a tree.
Godzilla then decided he wanted a snack (which, by now had all been eaten by pigeons) and Chippie was happily waving goodbye to everyone and spitting sucked on peppercorns into my cleavage.
Quite a shock when the first one hit, let me tell you.
Time to go, methinks. Besides, have to go and locate eldest son somewhere and get home in time for bath and dressed for dinner.
After offloading one child and attempting to do some work whilst baby child clung to my legs and cried a lot, and middle child did middle child type things, like colour in the carpet in his bedroom “coz I like it” and make himself a peanut butter and tomato sauce sandwhich “Coz I like it, it’s delicious. I don’t like this. It’s disgusting. You eat it.” I decided to take them outdoors for some Vitamin D and a run around.
We loaded up the pram with various balls, small for Chippie, basket and soccer for Godzilla. Vodka in a flask for me. Or would have, had we any vodka. Or flasks for that matter.
Did remember to take a bottle of water for each of us.
After much indecision about the mode of transport we would take – feet or pushbike for Godzilla – and off we went to the local school. Comandeered half the basketball court, where I was once again reminded that I can no longer play like I did when I was 18 and representing my club. I hate it when that happens. Overcome by intense desire to locate a team with which I could play, again, only to be just as intensely confronted by what I may have to wear and spent some time in the foetal position, lamenting not only my inability to play basketball, but also that blanc mange doesn’t look good on a basketball court.
Godzilla, sick of basketball (or, quite possibly, sick of psychotic mother) suggests we play some soccer. Thirty seconds in and I’m aware that jeans, a very old, ill fitting maternity bra and relatively low cut top don’t bode well for soccer mums.
Not to let this deter me, I persisted with the game. I tried to avoid running at all costs, which is not possible when playing with a six year old who has bad aim and kicks everywhere but to you. Although, in his defence, he was trying to get the ball past me, as he’d made his own rules up about how wide the goalposts were. Apparently, kicking at a 90 degree angle to the posts (yes, we were on a football field) and getting it over the line constitutes a goal.
It wasn’t just the out of shape body, the inappropriate clothes and lack of neat ponytail and professional manicure that alluded me to the fact I’m not a soccer mum. The fact that I kicked the ball at Godzilla twice, hitting him in the head and shoulder, unintentionally, and once at Chippie, collecting his head as well, indicated that I should probably keep well away from the sport and stick with things I’m better at.
Like drinking wine and not sharing chocolate with my kids …
Sitting quietly in the sunshine, minding my own business and watching the kids skipping in Phys Ed (which was pretty funny in itself) yesterday afternoon at school, when another mum approached me and asked if I could help out with the school excursion tomorrow.
It’s to the Melbourne show.
“Sure,” I replied, then immediately brought out my “Get Out Of Jail Free” card. “But, oh, I have the baby, he’d have to come. Sorry.”
Then at school this morning, just to prove I’m one of those mothers that really is making an effort – it’s all a show – I mentioned the conversation to the teacher. She’ll let me know.
Which she did, at school pickup. “Thanks so much for doing this. It’s going to be such a help, thank you. Oh, it won’t be too hard for you.”
What? Harder than my ‘normal’ day?
I smile sweetly and say no, it’ll be fine. And off we rush to the dentist.
Which I know is going to cut into my time for making a cake for Godzilla to take for his “show day”, because his class isn’t going so they’re having one at school. Complete with pet competitions – bring in a photo of you and your pet, which I’d do, but I’m still down two cameras, so can’t do that – and baking comps. Which I promised I would do.
In the meantime, I have a business coach kicking my bum and my to do list in book form and I’m trying to work through that, before it becomes a novel. I tick a few things off, whilst Chippie crawls around my feet, pulling my notes off the desk, and eating them, then pulling used tissues out of my bin, and eating them, too.
He’s clearly not going to have his morning sleep, which he has actually been having the last few days, and throws out my plans. I feed him lunch, early, check a few emails and find him asleep in his high chair. After half a cheese sandwich and an hour and a half of screaming and refusing to sleep.
Figure I’ll have a good few hours, get nearly two and an equal number of ticks off one of my lists, before he wakes.
Home from dentist and I quickly set about getting just one more thing done, as won’t really have time to do more till Friday. Slogging through the task when I think about tomorrow:
- all day at Show, with bubs, so must plan snacks for entire day. Ask Grumpy to get small cooler bag down from very high up cupboard for me;
- will have to drive to school as have swimming lessons immediatley after;
- therefore, must ensure extra extra spare clothes for Chippie, as no doubt he will get wet again;
- then remember I have a business meeting immediately after swimming lessons;
- thankfully, the person I’m going with has volunteered her (broken armed) husband to look after at least two of my kids;
- drop them off and pick her up at the same time – makes sense;
- drive to meeting – oh, wait, back to third point, will also have to take appropriate clothing for me to change into;
- not wearing business attire to Show and swimming lessons;
- also not wearing school excursion/swimming lessons clothes to business meeting;
- argh!;
- drive to meeting, and meet up with Mum who will play with Chippie whilst we’re in meeting
- broken armed husband of business colleague not confident with his kids, and mine when one involves a baby;
- fair enough;
- especially as he has a baby there, too;
- at this point, unsure as to what actions are after meeting;
- considering driving to airport and seeing if I end up in Tahiti.
After thinking all that, finishing off task and my head not exploding, I recall I am supposed to be making a carrot cake.
Continue discussion with Literal 6 year old that has been going since 3.30 this afternoon, which involves me trying to convince the non-believer that carrot cakes are actually made with carrots, and he tries to tell me they are carrot shaped.
Attempt to explain that I can’t cook them carrot shaped, and would he like a rectangle or muffins, and if I do the rectangle I can then make it carrot shaped.
Still not convinced, and cannot think of any other ways to explain situation. So I send him to bed.
Pour glass of wine – good cake preparation – and then have proper look at recipe. Have all ingreditents, which is quite remarkable really, as went to shop on way home from dentist and purchased only carrots. I knew I was out of them. And would need them for carrot cake, despite Godzilla’s assurance that I wouldn’t.
Follow recipe, leaving out walnuts due to nut allergies at school and very strict instructions to not bring anything nutty. Have no idea if walnuts are included in this, but is a moot point, as have no walnuts. Have another wine.
Mix everything together and, thankfully, just prior to pouring mix into tin discover cooking time is something like 3 days. Given it’s well past 9pm, and I don’t want to be up till Stupid O’Clock (despite good chance I will be woken then anyway) as have to spend tomorrow with far too many children that aren’t mine, I change plans and decide they’re just having carrot not-cakes. They will have cupcakey things instead.
Have not yet worked out how am going to make them look like carrots … but will worry about that after I’ve had 4.3 hours of broken sleep.
There comes a time in your Mothering Career where you wonder what the reward is.
Sure, you hear all about how their (the children’s) “smiles and hugs” make it all worth while. And then they get past the age of 6 weeks and make your life a living Hell. Hard to see the “love” in your smile when they’re laughing at you because a pair of dirty undies fell out the bottom of your jeans on the way to school, and they’re only hugging you because you told them they couldn’t go to the movies this weekend because they’re being little shits.
Yeah, their smiles and hugs are soooo worth it them.
After some events of today, I did work out how to get something out of them, make it all worth while. Reckon I could get myself a few new pairs of shoes. I’m going to Monetise them. Mostly advertising space.
I’m gonna invoice whatever company it is that Monkey Boy (and on the rare occasion, Godzilla – hmmm, maybe he’s worth more?) mentions, and quotes the tagline on. Like, over the weekend, after spending some outside time with Daddy, he came in, whinghing and complaining that “Dad wants me to go with him to Bunnigs, lowest prices gauranteed, but I don’t want to go!” There’s a few grand in that, for sure.
And this afternoon, Godzilla was accidentally kicked in the head in a school yard accident – a la one boy swinging on something he shouldn’t be, and Godzilla wandering around aimlessly not waiting. Video moment, for sure, only I didn’t have one one me. It left a mark on his head that strongly resembled the Nike symbol. We walked today, so that symbol was seen by everyone we passed. And we go home via a main street, too, so maximum exposure.
Anyone have the email for Bunnings and Nike accounts departments?
Start the day off with a trip to the dentist for a well overdue checkup. So overdue that I lost a filling and had to have a new one put in.
They did some other work, numbed half my face and I was worried that if I had a car accident on the way home the paramedics would think I’d had a stroke. Thankfully, I didn’t. Have either.
Grumpy went off to work not long after I got home, so I took Chippie with me to a meeting regarding some events I’m organising. It was tight, so got the swimming bags organised and ready to throw in the car so we could go straight to school, then swimming.
Triple checked I had a spare set of clothes for Chippie and swimming lessons. Not his, of course, he’s not having any. Yet.
Walk to appointment, and whilst we’re waiting for the restaurant manager, Chippie takes the lid off his sipper cup, which also happened to be very full, and poured it over his socks. Then he crawled through the rather large puddle. Then sat in it. Then helped to clean it up by running his hand through it, and lying in it.
And we haven’t even done the school pickup yet, let alone got to the pool.
That done, I dressed him in his bathers where he, once again, refused to go in and sat on the edge and cried. Know that the second I dress him, he will want to go in. I dress him anyway and distract him with food.
Food always works for a distraction. It’s a good one.
Managed to keep him dry. Until it was time to leave, of course, when he once again located a baby’s bottom sized puddle and sat in that.
I think I’m beyond caring, now. Although am contemplating going naked myself next week, as spent all this afternoon wandering around pool with one wet crotch and one wet leg …
That time of a baby’s life where they’re required to have their 12 month immunisations.
We do the council thing, coz they’re closer and the nurses know what they’re doing. Sure, it’s Cattle Class, but the waiting room isn’t full of sick people, and you get to do some awesome people wathcing. Fun.
Gotta love the new parents, where Dad has taken the day off work to be there for “Baby’s First Jab”, camera’s out, Mum is neatly dressed and nearly in tears. Dad still doesn’t have a clue, he’s there coz he was told to be. Gorgeous!
Didn’t have to wait too long today. Got into the Screaming Room within half an hour of arriving. Gotta love how they lull the kids into a false sense of security; there they are, happily playing with a hall full of other kids, something they don’t do very often, then lead them into a seperate room where they give them lovely toys to play with then stick a needle or three in their arm.
Unlike my other two, Chippie screamed the house down. And, because he had a heap of people then looking at him and going “Aww, poor thing” he kept going. Started up every time someone looked at him with sympathy. Cheeky little bugger.
Home and he’s in bed. Wonder what my chances are of him sleeping … could be 20 minutes or several hours …
I’m still astounded by the number of choices you have to make as a parent.
It’s insane! Just when I think I’ve been confronted with absolutely every choice I could possibly have to make – like “have a shower or have a coffee” – there’s another one at my feet.
And then there’s the things you have to do as a Mum – you just have to do, whether you want to or not.
*sigh*
Here I am, the kids asleep, still. Well, the littlest one woke up early and went back to sleep (in my bed). But it’s peaceful and quiet. And I’m really, really enjoying it. I know if I don’t get them up soon, it will be revolting trying to get them organised for school on time.
Do I wait for them to wake up of their own accord and continue enjoying my peace, or go wake them?
I really don’t want to. I hate having to do stuff I really don’t want to. No one told me about this! Buggers.
After my issues with the dodgy on super special crappy sipper cup, I was really getting annoyed that I was not able to locate either the ok sipper cup or the good sipper cup.
The “OK” one he will drink out of but prefers not to. But it doesn’t leak, and is non-spill. Double bonus.
The “Good” one is the one he will drink out of. It does drip, when you hold it upside down. Let me rephrase – when he holds it upside down. And it does leak, but only when thrown across the room from the highchair and the lid comes off. Aside from those two things, no spillage or leakage or mess.
From the cup at least.
Anyhoo, both now missing for a week. And today, found! Hurrah!
Chippie was tossing a semi-deflated balloon around and it went under the coffee table, resulting in tanties because he couldn’t get it. And there they were – the two, long lost sipper cups!
Not sure why I didn’t go to the coffee table in the first place, because everything that is lost is under there. Except for the Chef LEGO man who is still MIA.
I pull them out, still sticky and covered in chunks from last time they were used.
And, the good one, still half full of milk.
I think I’m going to be sick. Again.
You rock, Doll.....thanks for such awe inspiring honesty and brilliant laughs.
Fuck you make me laugh (via Twitter @woogsworld)