Archive for Raising Boys
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 …
That’ll do it
Posted by: | Comments“Fuckit.”
I heard it coming from the kitchen.
Well, not technically “the kitchen”, but from the mouth of the three year old who happened to be standing in the kitchen.
“Fuckit.”
“Fuckit.”
This time, it was followed by the almost-girly hysterical giggling of the 11 year old, home from school as he was sick. Oh, I mean “sick”.
At least he had the decency to be helpful and had stopped the littlest one from disturbing my writing time by making him a Milo.
Making a Milo for the littlest one consists of the biggest one dumping far too much Milo into a cup (“I said ONE teaspoon! That is technically a tablespoon!”) which he then takes away, eats with a teaspoon, comes back, requests more be added, then allows you to add milk.
The result? Milo all over face. Which is the instigator of the “Fuckits”.
“Oh,” says Monkey Boy to his baby brother. “You look so cute. You have Milo all over your face.”
“Fuckit,” replies Chippie.
Monkey Boy attempts to wipe it off.
“Fuckit,” says Chippie.
Monkey Boy collapses into giggles and comes in to inform me that Chippie is saying “fuckit”.
*sigh*
An hour later, Chippie wanders in. His shoes appear to be sticking, just slightly, with every step he takes. I can hear it.
“Why are you feet sticking?” I ask him.
“Come and build me a track!” he yells at me.
“Gimme a look at your feet,” I say.
“I. Want. A. Track!” he tells me again.
I lift his foot to see what could be causing his feet to stick, and try not to think about what may or may not be on the floor, or just how much of whatever it is may be on the floor, or tracked through the house.
I take a look.
Milo.
Fuckit.
It’s tricky
Posted by: | CommentsMonkey Boy was invited, a few weeks back, to partake in the Next Level Up Class in Gymnastics.
He went along, tried it out, enjoyed it but the condition of him “moving classes” was that he also took up an extra one. Turns out, it wasn’t “just” the next level up, it was the squads class where they are very serious.
Which is where it got tricky … the second night clashed with swimming lessons, of which we would lose our term fees if we left, and therefore couldn’t use those funds for the second gymnastics class.
Also, whilst he loves gymnastics, he’s not passionate about it, and really has no inclination to become a champion gymnast or collect a heap of medals. He was sent to classes in an attempt to curb some of his patholgocial climbing and hanging off stuff.
Hence his name, just in case you missed the connection.
Really, what he wants to do is the Tricking Class, which he was unable to join due to being two years too young for it. Our ideal, for the interim, is that there is a recreation, as opposed to squads, class for the level he is ready for. Just till he can do Tricking.
Things were on my side, however, when I rang the Head Coach to let her know we weren’t ignoring the invite to the squads (which is pretty exciting if you think about it) and our current situation re too much on and what our ideal would be.
“Oh, that’s fine. All the big kids have moved out of Tricking, and we’re looking at lowering the age anyway. If he wants to come and try one out, bring him in …”
It all falls into place. Ish.
The start time clashes with the finishing time of basketball training for Godzilla, but surely we can work through this?
I hoped so, as I watched Monkey Boy kill some time at basketball training by climbing up stuff, and attempting (quite well) to balance on things that he really shouldn’t have been up on in the first place, let alone walking across in falling apart shoes some four foot off the ground. With me yelling at him to get down and stop climbing on things that are not designed to be climbed on.
Also, Chippie was following and copying.
I hope he likes this Tricks Class, I though.
Because the great thing about it is he’s going to learn how to do stupid shit, along the lines of what he’s doing now.
Of course, the downside is, he’s going to learn how to do stupid shit, along hte lines of what he’s doing now ….
*sigh*
He LOVED it.
Now to re-order chaos …
The mum with the horrible kids
Posted by: | CommentsUrgh.
It appears I am That Mum.
Or, rather, as I prefer to think of it, I have Those Kids.
It started in the pool with Chippie – and my freshly waxed legs, but that fact has little to no impact on this story, just I finally feel acceptable. Except hat Aunt Of A Kid has turned up to watch, freshly returned from Bali or Phuket, complete with svelt, tanned body, new bikini she looks stunning in, sun streaked blonde hair, and replica snotty brand sunglasses. I suddenly feel inadequate and pretend to be a crocodile and all good motherish, with my toddler climbing all over me and giggling and laughing.
It was a ruse. I was just trying to hide my legs.
Anyhoo, Chippie found a toy on the side of the pool, which I had thought belonged to the pool. Turns out it belonged to Another Child, whom expresses, calmly, his dislike of Chippie holding it. As toddlers are want to do. And as I wish they bloody wouldn’t.
Chippie took offense to these mild, albeit whiney, protests and smacked Another Child in the mouth with his own toy.
As toddlers are wont to do. And I wish the wouldn’t.
He then took great offense to my expressing my innaceptance of such behaviour by saying “NO” – loudly, out of shock and to ensure that every parent in the suburb knew, without a doubt, that I am not the sort of parent who is oblivious, accepting or non-chalante about such smacking in mouths and, therefore, could not be judged unfavourably.
Then I made him say “sorry”. Which resulted in him crying for the remaining 27 minutes of the 30 minute lesson.
I almost joined him.
Arrive home, get organised for a meeting, Chippie in tow, which I am called out of by Monkey Boy’s teacher who expressed her annoyance at his behaviour.
*sigh*
Yup. I’m the mum of the kid that hits, and the one who is annoying in class.
I have no more excuses for his behaviour; no “someone else is a bad influence” or “there’s a lot of stress at home” (which there is, but its not the issue) or “he’s bored” (which he is, but I’m over the “suck it up” conversations) and I resort to requesting that the work he not only didn’t finish, but also partially destroyed in a “fuck you” to the teacher, totally missing the point that it actually doesn’t make a difference to her at all, and it makes him look like a spoilt, arsehead, little brat, comes home with him and he completes it here.
I pick them up from school, Chippie advising me that he wanted to say sorry to his swimming class friend, then replying with “no, I punch” when I reminded him that smacking is not ok.
Have a few words with Monkey Boy’s teacher, and a few more to Monkey Boy on the way home.
I can’t help but feel Godzilla, the middlest child, is being somewhat overlooked, until I notice a scaly, flaky patch behind his ear. And on his cheek. And head. And several on his body.
It looks like psoariasis.
Awesome. He appears to be channeling my stress and its manifesting in scaly red patches on his body.
That should ensure he stands no chance of ostracism of any kind.
*sigh*
Just checking
Posted by: | CommentsWith the impending influx of in-laws tomorrow – because we invited them – and the long neglected tidying of house, or so it appears given the mess everywhere, although I’m fairly sure we went through this same process last weekend and several times during the week, a Tidy Up and Clean was scheduled. Along with The Grocery Shopping Including Party Foods.
It kicked off with an 8.00am game of basketball – our very first at this time – where Godzilla’s team were kicking some serious bum (this week – the comp has so few under 10 boys team that they’ve combined grades A, B and C. You know, for variety) and the awesomeness of the coach had arranged for some strategic passing of the ball to the lesser experienced players on our team. Of which there were two. Godzilla being one of them.
He’s the kid that runs up the court way after everyone else, skips a bit, watches the scoreboard count down, stands twiddling his thumbs and occasionallyparticipates in the game when he’s on court. He’s getting better, however.
So, today, there were some very specific instructions to the rest of the team about passing to these two boys, and to the two boys about “catching and dribbling” and “catching and shooting”. All very good.
Until Godzilla, standing at the top of the key, rebounded the ball, quite by accident, and panicked. All this talk of pushy parents, and “my son is the best” stuff you hear about went out he window, as eight parents on the sideline stoood up and yelled “SHOOT!!!!!!” repeatedly.
In hindsight, it was probably not the thing to do, as he kinda freaked a bit. But did manage to bounce pass the ball to a more experienced player who got a goal. He was quite proud of himself and we heard all about it for the rest of the day.
Home again. Much yelling and passing on of instructions in order to have our floor returned to us for the purpose of vacuuming. Well, not even that really. We just wanted to be able to walk on it. Eventually ended up setting timers and handing out serious threats about shopping and the non-purchase of yellow food colouring for birthday cake. It worked.
Dragged Monkey Boy along with me, and as we’re leaving, Grumpy had slight meltdown, and Chippie came along as well. I drew the line at taking all three, and advised Grumpy if he played his cards right, he could coerce Godzilla into doing something constructive.
Pahahahaha.
Thus, the shopping trip required two trolleys, as one was now partly taken up by a toddler, and consisted of much being rammed in the back of the feet and legs. Monkey Boy also felt that pushing one trolley up to the other and placing Chippie’s feet in it would also be of immense benefit and make it easy to push. Also, he is shit at calming a now tantrumming toddler, who wanted his feet to remain in the other trolley. By isle three, I was nearing foetal position.
Shopping finally completed, Monkey Boy decides leaving me to get up the escalator with two trolleys entirely on my own is a great idea and elicits a panicked “get here now!” from me, and causes much turning heads and glaring and crazy woman screaching at child. Thankfully, Christmas is approaching and this is a common scenario and no one is terribly fussed.
Back home for some more tidying and sorting and cleaning so the house can be invaded tomorrow and we will wonder why we went to the effort of it all.
Decide to query Monkey Boy re the now located Blu Tack.
“Is this the bit that went up your nose? Dad found it in the hall, squished.”
“Umm. It could be. Let me see,” and I handed it over so he could immediately stuff it up his nose.
It was all I could do not to shake my head, mutter “for fucks sake, you’re an idiot” (AGAIN!) and wander off.
Unfortunately, I failed and did mutther “for fucks sake, you’re an idiot” (AGAIN!)
At least we know that it came out, though.
I think I’ll go and bake his cake for tomorrow.
Conflicting emotions of equal force
Posted by: | CommentsFor some reason, I was up disgustingly early. So early, in fact, that the coffee machine hadn’t yet gone off and was still a good hour or so away form doing so. I was forced to kick start it manually. Which meant stumbling around waiting for it to beep me so I could pour my MUG of coffee, rather than the usual just stumbling into the kitchen to pour my MUG of coffee.
Therefore, I was well into a good chunk of work whilst the rest of the household went about its business of waking up, getting up, weeing on toilet seats, not doing what they were asked, laying on the guilt trip and drawing a “picture for you Mummy” instead of having breakfast and the usual stuff.
Monkey Boy, despite knowing better and having been told six times already this morning, came in and said:
“It’s a good idea to keep blu tack handy so you can have some when you need it,” and tilts his head back.
Aside from the small scratch on his chin, I can’t see anything.
“I can’t see … what are you talking about? Where … oh, for fu... You didn’t stick it up your nose, did you?”
“You’re an idiot,” I add as I see a small blob of Blu Tack stuck up his right nostril.
“YEP!” he proudly informs me.
Then does a big sniff in. Followed immediately by “Oh oh” (who’d've thunk it?) and sticking his finger up his nose with a frantic “It’s gone up my nose!”
He digs away with his finger as I simultanseously feel woozy and yell at him to “get a bloody tissue and blow it out, you dill!”
And mutter for fuck’s sake some more.
“You’re an idiot,” I hear Grumpy Pants inform him from the kitchen. “You’re supposed to get smarter as you get older.”
Sounds of Monkey Boy blowing nose and saying “It didn’t come out!”
Although it is highly possible it did and he’s flapped the tissue around in despair and flung a snotty blob of Blu Tack up the wall.
I’m increasingly feeling woozy, as I can’t handle things up noses – not that I’ve ever had to deal with it before – and laughing. A lot. It is possible to have two conflicting emotions at exactly the same time.
Grumpy pulls the torch out (a large Dolphin for camping and other things we don’t do and have no inclination to do), tilts Monkey Boy’s head back and has a look. Nothing visible, but as he’s already done the forceful suck and shoved his finger up his nose, I’m not surprised.
“I don’t want to go to school now,” he tells me.
Ha!
“Now I’m scared and worried,” he continues. Scared and worried.
Yup. Me too. Add queasy and woozy to that for me, as well.
“I’m going to have to lie down all day and contemplate my stupidity,” he finishes with.
Yep. That’d be a great idea. At shool you can do that.
And off we go to school.
As my worry – a gut feel – gets worse and worse. Although it’s possible that I’m tired due to excessively early start and a resulting inability to determine head from heart thoughts. Also, I need to decide whether to inform his teachers or not.
My worry got the better of me. So I slinked into the classroom and had a brief chat to one of his teachers. She had to confirm I was talking about him and not Littlest Person.
I left with “So, just thought I’d let you know, you know, in case he has a seizure on the floor. It’ll just be the Blu Tack has reached his brain.”
Although, given he did it in the first place, I wonder that there’s not something wrong with his brain already.
She said she’d let me know if anything happened.
As we walked home form school dropoff, I still felt not quite right about the whole thing. Really, I’d like to take him to the GP or emergency department, just to get it checked out.
The thing is, this would be a totally acceptable thing to do if he were, say, two. If I take him at the age of ten, I’m gonna be the one that looks like a fuckwit.
Ok, so will he. But that’s not the point. I’m not the one that did something stupid.
*sigh*
He has no idea what he’s put me through this morning.
That pretty much sums it up …
Posted by: | CommentsFor some reason, which I’m putting down to the excessive sleeping in of children, quite possibly due to the fact that during the school holidays I altered the time on the coffee machine so it would go “off” at 7.23am and not 6.23am as it had been, we’re having less tiime to get organised in the mornings and leaving slightly later and more rushed than usual.
This morning was no different; up later, coffee poured, mental notes made to self re changing time on coffee machine, much mentioning of “no time to lie in bed and read, get up NOW!” and usual morning blabberings about dishwashers and breakfast and clean undies and shoes under coffee tables.
Our always forgotten weekly ritual of “But I have Show And Tell” today occurred at it’s usual time. Like clockwork is it. Right after that moment where I yell “getyourbagandbookbagandyourshoesonandgetajacketonit’scoldwhydoIhavetotellyoueveryomorning?!” and the jacket is half on and I’m halfway out the door.
And I thought we had Show and Tell on Tuesdays. Or is it Wednesdays? Monday?
My discussions with the teachers at PT interviews on Tuesday reminded me of a) their suggestion I help Godzilla remember things, perhaps with the use of checklists or notes (to him or myself, I’m not sure) and b) that we had a discussion about Sydney Harbour Bridge Bridge Climb. Being a recent excursion, the photos I had of the experience were located on or near the top of the Dumped On Desk pile, thus relatively easy, if not precarious, to locate, grab and shove at him with a “Here, show this!”
Dropped kids off, did work, went to meeting, picked kids up, spoke to teacher.
“So, what did you go to China and Sydney for? Was it with Coke?”
She had received the Godzilla reply to “How come your Mum is doing this stuff with Coke?”
“Aw. Cos she sits at her computer all day and does stuff and they like her.”
Hmm. Fair call, too, I would think. I do sit at my computer a lot. And do stuff. And things.
Head home while Grumpy takes kids swimming, have much discussion pertianing to completion of homework/project regarding brains. Locate anatomy text book I used for uni some years ago, as it contained much information about brains. Relented after snarky comments from 9 year old and located much more age appropriate book on brains. Godzilla then retreived his age appropriate book and offered to help.
“Mum. A brain looks like a bum with squiggly lines on it,” he informed me.
Monkey Boy immediately set about his project, which I discovered was quoting his 7 year old brother, verbatim.
“Um. Not sure you should write that,” I highly recommend to him.
“But it’s a fact! I does look like a bum with squiggly lines on it.”
“Yes, it does,” I reply. “However, I’m not entirely sure it’s “fact” because your brother said it.”
“It is a FACT! He said it and it’s a fact! Besides, I know some people with brains like that!”
Bugger. I was gonna use that very line in a blog post and now he’s beat me to it. All because I was helping him with his homework and not sitting at the computer doing stuff.
And things.
On that note, I left him to complete his homework himself. Clearly my years of study and knowledge are nowhere near that of his younger brothers.
“Bum!” replied Chippie.
What’s in the box?
Posted by: | CommentsI do manage a shower yesterday afternoon, so some time away from it all.
When I return to the living quarters of the house, which makes our house sound so much larger and organised than it actually is, I find a cardboard box sitting on the couch. A smallish one. Not a shoe box. A box that perhaps once held A5 sized notebooks or perhaps some exotic coffee from far away lands.
Although it didn’t smell like that.
This in itself is not unsual. Many things have appeared on our couch, from shoes to spiders, from 3 month old twisties to the reader book that’s been missing for the last two nights, and toddler snot to the light covering from the front room.
This box, however, had holes punched into it, immediately causing me to wonder whether it had, at some stage, contained a living being of some sort, and hoping that it wasn’t living in that box only moments before.
I did grasp frantically to the hope that my children wouldn’t be so foolish enough as to bring a creature of some sort into the house without first asking. I’m also very aware that the reply would most likely be “no”, unless that creature was able to produce chilled sauvignon blanc, or perhaps vodka, on demand. And whip up a good latte at a moments notice.
Not insane enough, yet, to be 110% positive that my children wouldn’t actually do such a thing, and having been a child myself that was deluded enough to think a mouse cage constaining two mice, albeit very cute ones, would go unnoticed under my bed, I had to accept the possiblity that, yes, at this point in time there is likely to be a creature of unknown species running around my house. Possibly crawling or creeping. Flying was also not out of the question, however, I am fairly sure I can rule out some sort of amphibian-type organism, or a fishy, water-dwelling life form.
The other thing on my couch at the same time is Grumpy Pants. Warily, I turn my gaze to him.
“Um, what’s this?” I ask.
He responds with an eye-rolly type look that doesn’t quite give me the confidence that not a living thing, but does indicate something probably more stupid.
And it was.
For the box with holes contained this:
Yes. His own head. Apparently, he walked home from school with it on.
(This photo was posed for this post – also so I could get my head around how much of an idiot he can be at times 
)
I must point out, this is also a shot of his front. He had his jacket on backwards. For this reason …
The jacket he had on under that one was the right way around. No, it was not a particularly long, cold walk home from school. He was a robot.
One that, clearly, had shortcircuited and required the hoods of both jackets to be pulled up … yes, including the one that was on back to front.
*sigh*
For the record, none of this behaviour is mentioned in anyof the What to expect series of books, nor any on raising boys …
Do I really want to know?
Posted by: | CommentsBack on the vegemite-sandwich-get-your-shoes-on-repeated-38-times-in-seven-minutes-school-drop-off-pick-up-swimming-lessons treadmill, then some crazy running around and organising and bag stuffing for tomorrow night’s Mums’ Night Out!
A friend arrives, complete with own 3 kids, and dinner, to help stuff the bags. That done, and lolly bags for the goody bags rescued from toddlers (and, erm, us), chocolate shots sorted and table inaccessible due to goody bags, they head off.
Chippie put to bed, Monkey Boy and Godzilla told to have bath and get themselves to bed whilst I finalised a few things before coming in to kiss them goodnight.
As per standard, there was laughing, yelling, fighting and, finally, a “I’m gonna win and the last one has to eat it!”
Eat what? I ponder. Then consider this particular ponder relatively stupid, and instead ponder all the ways I can get myself into an isolation unit …
Roll on 5 O’Clock … bring on Wine O’Clock!
Posted by: | CommentsDespite and attempt at quiet time, and encouraging Grumpy to do the school pickup thing and buy then ham and spinach needed for the evening meal, I caved and walked to school with them.
I blame Chippie – he decided another full on tantrum for no apparent reason was in order, and it was leave there and then, or listen for another 20 minutes before Grumpy drove to get them.
Rain had stopped, thankfully, arrive at school, something told me to check Godzilla’s book bag (which normally wouldnt have been done till tomorrow morning, if that early), discover not pertaining to Parent/Teacher interviews, race into his class, fill out form requesting preferred time, race over to Monkey Boy’s class (I may or may not have shoved some knee heighted, new starters along the way – don’t know, this was a life or death matter!) accost him, demand he hand over the note, he looks at me, quite frightened and proclaims to have no idea what I’m talking about.
But I’m on the alert, see the yellow corner of said note, rip it out of bag, shove parents and slightly taller (actually, most of them are now taller than me! eeek) kids out of the way, scream something at teacher, rummage through her pen collection, push three other parents out of way so my note gets to her first.
And … breathe.
Make it home via the deli and fruit & veg shop, where I was forced to stop kids manhandling bananas and shooting each other. We are not Star Wars and a death will shortly be involved if they continue.
Ah, home and …. damnit, it’s 4.57!
Pour wine anyway, completely forget about morning’s debacles, set out pizza bases, open tin of pineapple, pour juice up left arm, over bench with the most crap on it and spread it over a good portion of floor.
It vaguely crosses my mind that I should, perhaps, just quit now and go to bed.
Complete pizza preparation, put them in oven and we sit and eat as a family … in front of TV tonight.
Pizza devoured, except for the slice with the most stuff on it sitting on Chippie’s tray. When I say “on”, I actually mean “previously on”. He has managed to disect his pizza toppings (chicken, five different vegetables and two types of cheese) completely and rub the base into his hair and face.
I pop up to the bathroom, turn the taps on, hear a crash followed by Monkey Boy yelling loudly. Chippie has decided he wants out, has pushed his tray and upended the pizza topped plate onto the floor.
Hmmm, would you look at that. The plate has smashed. Everywhere! It also appears that chicked, vegetable and cheese pizza can also shatte. Who’d have guessed.
Hop in bath with him, Grumpy sorts him out, and he then heads to the bathroom where he removes anything he can reach and throws it into the bath (the one Monkey Boy has just hopped out of and is still emptying!). A step up really, as earlier in the day, when I was having a shower and couldn’t trust him so locked him in the bathroom with me, he was attempting to put things down the toilet. Only thwarted by my yelling in panic at him, causing him to drop toilet lid on his own nose and giving me an incredibly pissed off look.
Now prevented from entering the bathroom, he locates Monkey Boys neglected cup of pineapple juice (the stuff that actually made it into the cup) and gave himself a finger bath. Removed from that, he climbed onto a desk and unsorted the CDs up there.
Moments later, I heard Grumpy yelling at him again … somewhere out of my site.
I left my office and work … not to check, to be honest, i no longer want to know. I went for more wine.
(If anyone needs wine, I urge you to join the Real Mums Wine Club … it is free to join, but better still, they DELIVER. FREE!)
You rock, Doll.....thanks for such awe inspiring honesty and brilliant laughs.