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 …
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?
Ah, my children are going through some lovely, lovely phases.
With the dishwasher out of action again, the Dibber Dobber and Kiss Arse phases are back.
This is the phenomena where 8 year old son reports back everyting the six year old is doing. Or not doing. Everything that comes out of his mouth is “He’s not drying the dishes”, “He’s not picking up his stuff”, “He’s running around naked”, “He looked at me!”. “He breathed when I told him not to” etc etc blah blah.
Most of which my reply is “Why don’t you jsut do what you’re supposed to be doing and let me worry about him” and, shortly afterwards “Please shut up now.”
Of course, he is completely innocent himself, and while he’s telling me that his brother “isn’t picking his toys up” he is picking his own up. Oh, wait, no he’s not. He’s so busy dibber dobbing that he’s doing fuck all. And then he refuses to do things because he claims his brother isn’t doing them, and shortly afterwards, it escelates into revulsion. You know, where the 8 year old becomes obnoxious and revolting.
Enter the Kiss Arse, the transformation of the 6 year old, where, whilst you’re “having dicussions” with the older brother, involving things like “Pick the frigging things up or I’ll put them in the bin” the 6 year old follows you around (not actually doing anything) but saying “I’m a good boy mummy, aren’t I? I’m picking aaalllllll my things up. See?” And basically being so sweet it’s sickening.
And really, really annoying.
I just want them to pick their crap up off the floor. I don’t need a running commentary!
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 …
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.
Swimming day today. Which is always fun.
After last week’s efforts, and, let’s face it, the efforts of every swimming day in the last 8 years, but particularly after last week, I prepared myself.
I ensured Chippie’s leak free, double padded, designed for babies in the pool bathers were packed. I still can’t find mine and refuse to because the will undoubtably no longer fit and send me into a spiral of depression that I can really do without just at this point in time.
We even manage to leave school right on time, becuase this week, I was early, and we got to the swim centre with enough time for the kids to play in the pool before their lesson without the usual hurry up rhetoric. All three kids changed, older two hop into the baby baby pool, I roll my jeans up and place Chippie beside the pool. I readied myself for the anticipated fast crawl into the pool.
He crawled in three ‘steps’ and cried. And cried. And cried. Hrmmm. Nothing like last week at all. Perhaps it was the appropriate attire he was in. Not as much fun. And fewer people glaring at mummy. He then crawled over to me, still crying, and scaled my legs.
*sigh*
Swimming lesson time, so get the kids into their lessons, and carry Chippie over to the bag to get changed. Put him down and discover my shirt is wet from boob to bum. Great.
Sadly, I think most of the wet was from wee (through the double padded, appropriate for baby in pool bathers) and not from pool water.
Of course, I had brought two changes of clothes.
But only for Chippie. Nothing for me ….
I don’t even like my own kids today, so not sure why I agreed.
I offered to assist on a school excursion, which was pretty much a walk around the neighbourhood, spotting land marks and answering questions on a piece of paper handed out just before we left the school.
Chippie in tow – screaming his head off coz he wanted to sleep and the only way he can sleep of late is if he screams his head off in the process and eventually submits to the land of nod. No screaming of head off = no sleep.
He eventually went off and the teacher (a substitute, not the usual one as she managed to wangle her way out of it by ringing in with a “sick kid”. I don’t believe her for a minute) took us on a pre-mapped out route around the neighbourhood, which consisted of extremely narrow, and too narrow for the pram, laneways, and train overpasses with loads of stairs. And bypassing most of the cafe’s I frequent.
A friend rang at one point and asked what I was doing. She wasn’t to know. I didn’t mean to swear quite so much. Fortunately, the kids were a bit ahead of me. Only 15 or so standing in earshot, so I think I was ok.
Not long after, the route took us past our house. I did consider just slipping inside, locking the door behind me and pretending Í wasn’t home when they rang the door bell. Chippie would probably start screaming again and give me away though.
The pain in my stomach that I had this morning, after snapping a pencil in half and having yet another very loud conversation with Monkey Boy about waving pencils in people’s faces, surfaced again. At the time, I thought it was too much coffee and stress from yelling. Now accompanied by a desire to throw up, that I didn’t think was a result of being in the vacinity of 20 odd children, I began to wonder if I was coming down with something. The sore throat from yesterday was still there, and my entire body started aching.
We stopped at a playground for lunch, where I was too scared to eat for fear of being teased by kids for vomiting on the teacher’s shoes, and Chippie moved from lunchbox to lunchbox helping himself to whatever he could get his hands on.
Contemplated buggering off home when another of the very few other mums who had also stupidly agreed to accompany the kids had to go off and get organised for her Provincial French Crocheting class or similar.
I staggered back to school, up the hill, kids all over the place. The teacher – clever little possum she is – played a game of Dead Fish with the kids. I got a bit bored after a while so let Chippie out of the pram and let him crawl over people so they’d have to go “out”.
The kids then started arguing about how was out and who wasn’t and how it wasn’t “my fault” they were out etc etc. Much like at home. It was all I could do to restrain myself from walking up and saying “HA! Welcome to my world! In your face!” to the teachers after the hell I’d been through today.
I must write myself a note, something along the lines of Never ever volunteer to help on school excursions ever again, lest you be labelled a fuckwit for the rest of your life.
I bet I forget and do it again. There are some benefits to having a real live paid job outside the home. A regular income is lower on the list than being unavailable for school excursions.
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.
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