Archive for parenting
If only chocolate could fix it …
Posted by: | CommentsAh, Easter Sunday, where I am up at some stupid hour starting with the figure 4, getting caught by the six year old as I’m trying excruciatingly hard not to make any noise (damn floorboards!) and attempting to hide behind a door.
Wander out into dark, as even the sun is not stupid enough to have made an appearance at such a stupid hour, only to have the sensor light, the one that only senses you if you’re a cat and not a human being attempting to hang washing out at 11.13pm or play Easter Bunny at Stupid O’Clock, chooses this moment to brighten the entire planet.
Still, I manage to perform the intricate task of hiding smallish chocolate eggs around the backyard so they’re not too easy to find, but also not too hard as to result in tantrummy meltdowns due to inadequate chocolate egg supply.
Lament the fact that this particular job is relegated to me, recall incidents of years past where Grumpy Pants took on the task and just piled them up in the middle of the decking, then lament fact that I have a congenital defect that requires I do ‘fun’ things for the kids. I.e. Easter Egg hunts.
Hide the first pack. Spread the second pack over back lawn and stumble way back to bed. Am extremely disheartened when discover six year old has wandered outside, then climbed into bed with us, cold, and my coffee machine didn’t go off as scheduled.
Eventually allow for hunting, Chippie eating an entire egg, including wrapper, pre 6.20am, poking the beanies that kept falling out back in the partially consumed egg them wiping his filthy face on the crotch of my pyjamas.
Godzilla, the sweet tooth, managed to consume approximately 8 kilo of chocoalte prior to breakfast and without anyone seeing. Considered sending in application on his behalf for role of Easter Bunny due to convincingness of his bounce and apparent endless hyperactivity.
Realise with great dismay we have guests coming over, I have neglected to purchase any Eastery type gifts for them. Nor do I have anything edible to serve them. After touring neighbourhood and web for openness of supermarkets, discover am forced to endure the exorbident prices of local “supermarket” for provisions.
Also purchase essential items for production of rocky road to package nicely and present as gifts to guests. The only Easter “eggs” they had remaining were a) rabbits and b) crap. And cost somewhere in the vicinity of $600.
Take kids with me in hope it will burn off some energy.
Clearly am an idiot.
Utilise a somehow forgotten, but very good quality chocolate, rabbit from a previous Easter in rocky road preparation, convincing self it will make it more Eastery. And that the ‘best before’ date couldn’t be seen.
Forced to stuff a third of a packet of marshmallows in mouth in the process as the kids were being somewhat overactive and obnoxious, so refused to allow them any and had to make a decent point. Also, there were that many left over that wouldn’t fit in the container, and it is a well known fact that any bits of anything that don’t fit in must be eaten.
Also couldn’t find another suitable container as it appears remainder of household incapable of putting things away where they belong.
Managed to muck up the rocky road, which I feel is a feat in itself as it already looks like mish mash and fairly hard to fuck up. Still, I managed it and blame it on early morning, lack of effective coffee machine operation in time of great need and near choking on marshmallows. That, however, did get me some minutes of peace and acceptable behaviour.
Fucked up rocky road in fridge to set so I could chop it up and wrap it beautifully in cellophane when guests arrive and hide yet more chocolate in the back yard and Chippie eats more red foil and chocolate, then attempts to dehair cat by grabbing it with choc-coated hands and comes up resembling a miniature yeti, having literally dehaired the cat and successfully sticking fur to self.
Guests depart, I unsuccessfully rummage in fridge to find wine and discover fucked up rocky road.
Ask a stupid question …
Posted by: | CommentsWorking, working,working whilst the Grumpy One is in charge of the kids.
A cup of tea brought into me (noice – first one in a week. Usually, I yell for a coffee 3 times before getting up to make one myself and Grumpy informs me he’ll have one while I’m there) and I continue working, working, working.
A desperate need for a toilet break leads me to discover Grumpy lying on the couch with Chippie and the older two playing their new DS Lites, which they’ve been playing since approximately 6am – near on 4 hours now.
At the site of me, they commence the “I wanna play that game and he’s got it” thing, to which my response is, invariably “Um, I’m working, can Daddy not handle this?”
(That would be Stupid Question 1)
Followed immediately by “Are you supervising these kids or are you letting them do whatever they feel like?”
(Yup, Stupid Question 2)
Unable to hear Grumpy’s reply, the ever helpful Godzilla informs me “No, he’s letting us do what we like. He just said “no” to the supervising question. He said “no”.”
Course he did.
Bugger the kid! That hurt
Posted by: | CommentsInto the bath with the lot of us.
Well, that was The Plan, but school aged boys are incapable of hearing the request the first 37 times, then get upset when they eventually get in and the bath is cold. So, it was in the bath with bubs and I. Figured I’d hope in if it wasn’t so loaded with penises and testosterone.
Enough bath, mostly due to fact that Chippie had splashed a fair amount of the water out, so I hopped out, wrapped self in towel, grabbed his towel and attempted to hop him out. Him wriggled, kicked, giggled and stood over in the far corner. Managed to wrangle him into his towel.
When I say “into” his towel, I mean I had it in my teeth and was holding him under the armpits and trying to drop towel on his head. Clearly not happy with being removed from the puddle that was now the bath, he screamed and kicked some, before grasping the knuckle on my thumb. Quite hard.
With his teeth.
Walking up the hall with a screaming, kicking, biting toddler in my hands (yes, he can scream and bite at the same time – kids are amazing!), my own towel working its way loose, the front door wide open thanks to my gorgeous husband and me yelling “STOP biting! It HURTS!”
Smile at neighbours through screen door whilst covering almost naked breast (just the one) with wriggler whilst he’s still attached to my hand.
He lets go when I place – it’s not a “drop” technically, is it, when he’s just a bit off the ground? – him on the floor, swear a bit, shake hand and examine fang marks embedded in the flesh.
No blood, but that’s not the point.
It hurt!
I walk to screen door and yell out to hubby “He bit me! It really hurt!”
“You didn’t drop him did you?”
Wha .. wha … whe .. wh … jdhvbkjdhgkahsgkshg (clearly speachless!)
Fuck him! He bit me. It really HURT!
Making the most of the situation
Posted by: | CommentsStill way overtired – all of us, we consume dinner, have arguments over when a good time for the kid’s shower is (I recommend about 4 hours ago, but now would be good. They argue against this) we bribe them into washing.
Anything to get them out of the room and as far away as feasibly possible – feasibly as far as “allowable parenting behaviours” go. Shower it was.
Hop in bath with Chippie, filthy from crawling around pantsless outside for most of the day, and hear Grumpy chatting with the kids.
Unlike me, who forcefully encourages the entire household to lie on the couch when I’m overtired, Grumpy resorts to Military – and sometimes Nazi-like – directive orders. Tonight, he decided the living area not only needed some tidying, but must resemble the living room of an extremely expensive property owned by millionaires and featured in a high class home living mag. Things not just put away, but put away with OCD tendancies and actually sparkling.
The multiple nit treatments I’d conducted over the last two weeks had me scratching my own head numerous times a day, and I was beginning to be concerned that I, too, had them. Again!
I figured I’d make the most of the situation and treat my own hair, whether it needed it or not. Called for removal of Chippie, mooshed treatment through hair, and lay back for ten minutes whilst reading my book.
If only the treatments didn’t smell like nuclear waste, and had an aroma more along the lines of the papaya bubble bath I had upended in my bath. That would have add the element to the time out I needed.
Almost disappointed not to find lice, nits or half a carrot when combing my hair through after the 10 minute time limit was up. Hop into shower, realise all my shampoos and body scrubs are in the other shower, and wash the treatment out using a cheapo kids’ shampoo that leaves my whispy, fine hair resembling steel wool.
I have the power
Posted by: | CommentsArrive 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
Negotiating and one up manship
Posted by: | CommentsArrive at school for pickup and Monkey Boy comes racing over to me, a friend and his mum in tow.
“Can I go to his place after school today? Please,” and without pause, comment or even a look from me, “I’ll be off your hands!”
Hmm, no argument there from me. Turn to Mum and tell her that I really had no argument to that and she was welcome to him.
Of course, I couldn’t leave it at that. I really did have to show him who was boss. My opportunity came when fellow school mum says they’re going swimming in the backyard pool.
I time it beautifully, waiting till a larger group of kids and their parents were leaving, “You can, but you’ll have to go in naked. And everyone will see your doodle.”
Apparently, I am the evilist mummy in the world. Tempted to prove just how evil by renegging on agreement for the after school play. Decide against this for sake of own sanity.
Turn up 2 hours later, only to be negotiated with some more and leaving empty handed. He was staying for a sleepover.
A mish mash of mumly duties
Posted by: | CommentsRacing around like an idiot – with MUG in hand, thankfully!
Remove yesterday’s undies from jeans before putting them on, locate freshly ironed jacket, whack on some makeup and blow dry seriously overdue-for-a-cut hair.
“Model” self for family, who are ever so supportive. Chippie says “URG!” and throws some Vegemite toast at me, Monkey Boy and Godzilla proceed to beat the crap out of each other with invisible lightsabers and Grumpy looks squarely at my boobs and informs me my “ensemble looks nice”.
A taxi arrives to pick me up, which does make me feel somewhat special, and respond with “Oh, yeah, um …” when Grumpy asks me what the kids are taking to school for lunch today. Arrive way too early, and don’t know what to do with myself, sitting in a room with “Kerry Anne Kennelly” written on the door, left alone with access to a coffee machine.
Read paper and watch the spiffy telly in the room, without anyone coming and stealing my toast or yelling at me that they can’t find their shoes that they’ve just tripped over.
Exciting.
Miked up, whisked into darkened studio, plonked in front of extremely bright lights and told to look into the camera lense.
All done, taxi waiting to drop me off at home.
Arrive home, Grumpy walking out the door, starting work early today.
Which means I get to do play group duty. Not happy about being “all dolled up” for the group. Tossed on “mum” shirt, change from heels to boots.
In hindsight, probably shoud have stayed as was.
Not a soccer mum
Posted by: | CommentsAfter 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 …
You rock, Doll.....thanks for such awe inspiring honesty and brilliant laughs.