Archive for raising children
Just another work day
Posted by: | CommentsWoken at ten past six this morning, by the phone ringing.
My first thought, which I think I said out loud, was What the fuck?
The immediate following thought, given I’d already been woken at 1.23, 2.46 and 5.43 was not the standard Oh my god, someone’s dead, when the phone rings at such an hour, but Someone seriously has a death wish. Then I contemplated the fact that someone may be dead, and had to scour the depths of my brain to decide whether I actually cared or not, in my sleep deprived state, and could they please let me know of whoever’s demise at a more suitable time.
Anyhoo, it was Channel 9 and they really wanted to interview me this morning on Today, and could I be there at 7.30? Usually not an issue, except that Grumpy Pants is also in high demand, and had been asked to work three shifts at two different facilities at 9 O’Clock last night. He also needed to leave the house at 7 … so why not just add some adventure and fun and change of routine to the morning, because there’s nothing like a bit of stress to get the adrenaline pumping, so I said “yes”.
It was then that I thought about what needed doing. Oh, yeah. Kids probably need to get up and get dressed. Run into their room and yell “aga gooba blubba fenakka” with my arms waving over my head in the direction of the coffee machine, which had gone off, grinding the beans and scaring the shit out of me. Pour MUG, gulp from it and return to bedroom and request get-uppage of children in what I think (hope) is somewhat more articulate than earlier. Thankfully, it is early and they aren’t quite fully functioning as normal, thereby forgetting to whinge, delay and make life more difficult.
Manage to get organised whilst I wait three days for Grumpy to get out of shower. I’ve been advised to do my own hair, and makeup will be done for me. Hurrah! Always makes me feel a bit spesh. Race around in bra and jeans, organising suitable distractions for the kids, by which I mean yelling out some mumbly gibberish to Monkey Boy, who is very good at that sort of thing. Ensure Godizlla has his DS and reader bag for school. Still shirtless and running around organising, Grumpy enquires as to what is happening with children’s school lunches.
Huh?
Oh … um … yeah. “Do they have to take lunch to school every day?” I ask him, then consider how grateful I am that I’m not a “bake all day every second day for stuff for school lunchboxes” kind of mum, and whip up a couple of Vegemite sandwiches and carrot sticks and cheese slices. Record time. Which is impressive, given that particular lunchbox combination takes under 3 minutes anyway. Thus my intense love for it.
Gather everyone and everything up; spare jacket, bags, snacks for Chippie, distractions and we’re all out the door together. Unfortunatley, Grumpy was also out the door with us, strapping kids into the car, only he hadn’t actually had time to grab things like, say, his keys to get into the car. I don’t blame him, I was “ooga booga”-ing quite a lot this morning, more than usual, so he was just being helpful. He took control, asked me to please stop trying to help and retreived his own keys and locked up.
Arrive only a few minutes late at Channel 9, am advised that there is no-one on hand to do my makeup but feel free to do my own (PAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA) and I’m shown the make-up room and the dressing room we can relax in till I’m ready. Or, rather, until they’re ready for me.
Unpack Chippie Distraction Paraphernalia, so that he may be distracted enough to allow me to do my own make-up (PAHAHAHAHA) and sneak out the door to do my segment without causing ear bleeds and causing distress to anyone in the vicinity.
Consider the thoughts friends and acquaintances have when they hear I’m on telly (again), and the “ooh la la’s” I get, recall fact I don’t have a nanny like majority of regulars and wish they could see the realness of my situation.
*sigh*
Thoughts quickly shifted from head as I remove jacket and kneel on floor to change incredibly stinky pooey nappy, just as knock on door and “Ok, we’re ready for you now” happens. Of course. When else were they going to be ready for me?
Sneak out, do segment, and am back in within five minutes, Godzilla still happily playing his DS and totally oblivious to fact I was even on, Monkey Boy playing trains which Chippie, who flat out refuses to leave and wishes to continue playing trains on that particular part of the bench.
Phone call arrives from producer, thanking me for segment, at which point I close the door to ensure no escapage of children and Chippie decides he has had enough of that particular bench area, races to the other side of the room and bangs on closed door with fists and trains and makes loud yelly type noises, which I am familiar with and know they are just loud, yelly type noises, but to the uninitiated, the sound somewhat like he is either being tortured or creating much destruction.
Assure them he is not really trashing dressing room. It just sounds like it.
Leave, drop kids off at school, head home and realise I’ve forgotten to eat breakfast in all the rush.
Whip up some scrambled eggs whilst Chippie smashes the lid of a glass, microwave dish, and not the lid we have leftover from when Monkey Boy dropped a glass dish and broke it, leaving a dish that doesn’t fit the lonely lid, then forced to share my breakky with Chippie. Apparently, the breakky he had whilst I cooked mine wasn’t enough for him and he needed more. Or just needed mine.
Finally have moment to sit.
Relieve stress by employing services of Aunty Thomas the Tank Engine DVD and give self some time to regroup.
Upping the ante
Posted by: | CommentsIt has long been well established that Monkey Boy is a smart arse little shit.
His vocab is extensive, his comprehension impressive and his problem solving skills are quite advanced. Not surprisingly, his abilty to manipulate is comparitive.
Or should I say, his attempts to manipulate?
After many years he has finally concluded that saying “sorry” does not actually teach him anything, nor is it the best way to get out of isolation and join in the pizza and movie night we’re having. He’s learn that just saying “sorry” in order to get what he wants does not work when the behaviour continues.
Last week, he tried a new tact, informing me that being sent to his bedroom was not, in fact a punishment. At the time, I was just most pleased and grateful to have him away from me that I was quite ok with this arrangement.
Obviously, he wasn’t. He clearly hadn’t actually been telling the truth regarding the fun- ness of his bedroom related seclusion and was most miffed at my not actualy falling for it.
Thus, as we embarked on a fun walk up the street in search of suitable family-type DVDs that didn’t make me want to stab myself in the eye and plug my ears with cat food, and Monkey Boy was unable to control the urge to make it more “fun” by employing every means possible to annoy his brother, and subsequently piss me off and make me want to push him under the next car that drove by, I was forced to utilise the “you can spend the night in your room” threat.
Never one to immediately take responsibilty and appropriate action, he chose the option of denial, buying him time to work out how to manipulate the “buy my room is a reward” route.
He gave it a good go for the remainder of the walk. What he didn’t figure was the extremenes of my aversion to behaviour that pissed me off. Nor the fact that I can manipulate back just as good as I get.
Apparently, it’s genetic?
“So, Mum. You know that my room is fun. So sending me there isn’t a punishment. You’re actually rewarding me for my bad behaviour.”
Nice, try, yet again, buddy. “Well, aren’t you lucky, then.”
You can actually hear his brain ticking, as he comes back with, “Well, then you’re spoiling me. Because when I do something you don’t like, you send me where it’s fun and rewarding. So you’re actually spoiling me!”
Sigh. “Well, that as may be. But you still won’t be in the same room as me, so I’m sure I’ll manage.”
“But,” he comes back with. “That’s not very good parenting, spoiling your kids. So anyway, I get to have fun in my room, and you’re just spoiling me and you’re not a very good mum.”
Oh, goody. We’re now onto emotional blackmail and attempting to guilt me out of it.
“Well, then we’re both getting what we want aren’t we?” my brain scrambles. “It’s win-win for everyone, you get to spend time in your room, having fun, and I get to spend time watching a DVD of my choice, and eating popcorn and chocolate with out sharing with you and not putting up with your behaviour and having fun! And you can play trains or whatever the hell you like. And, I can be a really evil bad mum and take everything out of your room before I put my DVD on, that I’m getting just for me that you can’t watch and see how much fun you can have in a boring old room!” I reply. Calmly.
He’s not to be beaten, and tries just one more. “Oh, well, fine then. But I was going to get the DVD for you, and pay for it with my money. Which I’m not going to do if you send me to my room. That’s your choice.”
By which stage my brain is hurting as I’m not up for such a heated debate requiring so much thought. I much prefer the ‘discussions’ with the seven year old which go “Put your shoes away, please”, to which he replies “No” or “I can’t find them” (despite the fact he is actually standing on them at the time) or goes off and does something else, so is asked agian with more force, then he cries and then you say “go to your room” which is futile as he’s already running in that direction and screaming “I hate you” and he slams the door behind him and I sit down with a MUG /glass of wine, depending on the time of day, in peace. Much, much more preferable than the thinkgy, brain-hurty discussions.
I’m left with no other option. Am forced to draw whatever reserves I have from the depths of my brain and tackle this head on in a desperate bid to stop it right now!
So I reply, “I know you are but what am I?! You’re still not watching a DVD! So …. ner!”
Yeah, that did it. He’s shut up now.
And I select my DVD, we walk home and he is ever so polite and helpful. I must remember that argument for next time.
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!)
Make it STOP!
Posted by: | CommentsMonkey Boy and Grumpy Pants negotiated a deal (I wish the wouldn’t) regarding the inability to put much desired Lego set on layby yesterday.
Monkey Boy counted up all his birthday and Christmas funds and calculated the amount of pocket money we owe him (11 weeks, really must have words to the accounts department who, it seems consists of the same people who draw on walls, spill food on the floor and leave mess everywhere … ie “Not me”) and he’s $10 short. Grumpy agreed to put in the extra $10 but he then becomes the layby department and Monkey Boy cannot have the item until he has paid off the remaining $10 to Grumpy.
After many attempts to drag me into it (“But I should be able to have half of it to play with if I’ve paid most of it” and “No, he can’t bloody have it till then, erm, because … um, I said so”) I commenced banging of head against wall and told them to piss off and sort it out themselves and I don’t want to know about it.
Except that I walked up the street with them to purchase said product, spending the entire trip telling Monkey Boy not to get his hopes up, just in case there was none left.
There weren’t and he was most upset and again I endured the “stupid people” and “I hate everyone” ramblings. We passed another toy shop where he found another set he really wanted and was cheaper still than the non-gotten set. The lovely shop owner took a few dollars off for him, too, which was nice.
And the entire journey home consisted of Monkey Boy talking excitedly at me, non-stop, rambling and gibbering. I verged on ripping the set open so I could retreive the Lego Lightsabres contained in the box to gouge my eardrums out.
I’m not sure which is worse; the sad and depressed inane chat, or the happy and excited one.
Used an empty takeaway latte cup, one of Chippie’s too small socks and several used tissues to stuff my ears before desire to throw myself under the couch at home overtook me. It’s not a safe place to be at the moment.
Allegedly I looked “like an idiot” but as I could no longer hear him I can convince myself he said “You’re the best Mum in the world”.
Well, of course I am.
I’ve made it this far, so it had to happen – my first trip in an ambulance!
Posted by: | CommentsA productive morning, an afternoon at the park with some overseas relatives, barbeque, playing cricket with a dodgy ball and six year old and racing a round the playground.
The older two had been invited to stay with the overseas relatives overnight, so we had their bags packed, and my head was full of thoughts about what Grumpy and I could get up to when Chippie went to bed …
I had some concerns about Godzilla, whom, being the youngest of the group was often left out. He also had a very sore throat and head, and was overtired, which wouldn’t have helped his temper and fitting in. I tried several attempts to talk him into coming home with us, but he was determined. He then fell face first off the flying fox, required an ice-pack, and resorted to a cold bottle of beer held to his face.
After some more-than-usual vagueness – a result of the fall, being overtired or just him, who knows? – he still insisted on going, and I reluctantly agreed. Some tree climbing, sans falling, later, we all head home. Chippie was overtired and flithly from a day of crawling around, falling over and eating cigarette butts and beer bottle tops.
I unload as much of the car as possible and head straight to the bathroom to fill the bath (mmmm papaya bubbles and some lavender oil to aid sleep). Grumpy and his mum unload the rest, and Grumpy brings Chippie in who decides he’d rather be out the wide open front door … outside!!! Freeeeeeedom! I show him a ball (this always grabs his attention) and shut the bathroom door. He commenced what I like to call his Silent Tantrum – this is the one he puts on when others are around, he pulls a face, falls sideways, hands down and lays on the floor.
Quietly and refusing to interact with anyone. And everyone goes “Awwww. Are you tired, sweetheart?’
Tired, my arse. He’s having a Silent Tanty!
Anyhoo, as any good mother would do, she ignores it while removing her top and bra to hop in the bath as he gives me The Look. I unzip my jeans as he falls sideways, collects the side of the shower base and lays there.
“Ah, Chippie, ya silly bugger. Up you get!”
Nothing. Hrm, he seems somewhat …. unresponsive and flat.
“Come on, mate. Hop up,” as I walk over to pick up up. He takes a very deep breath in and I brace for the SCREAM! And wait. And wait. And wait. And then think, hrm, he must have hurt himself more than I thought. It wasn’t a hard bang. And wait. And wait. And then think I think I’ve waited more than long enoug.“Ok, come on, breath. Breath. Breath. Breath” and watch his head pull to one side and he’s out to it.
Oh, FUCK!
I scream for hubby, race to the lounge, still topless and pants undone, front door wide open (thankfully I ran in the other direction!), Grumpy calls 000 while I attempt to calm self enough to determine if he has actually started breathing yet (NO!) and whether that racing heart beat was his or mine (His. Thank FUCK!)
Grumpy is talking to the operator, and his Mums is standing out of the way, observing and trying to keep us relatively calm. Grumpy has no clue as to what happened, so with a now breathing and semi-crying baby, I take over to explain. Chippie keeps drifting in and out, crying and standing on the couch (yeah, good one, lets go for seconds, hey?) when he’s with us, then flopping when he’s out. I hear the ambulance and figure getting my gear on would probably be a good idea.
Hand phone back to Grumpy, back to bathroom to get dressed, Chippie comes too, grabs the phone and hangs up. I walk out the front, wave down the ambulance and plead for valium.
A check over, stats are all normal, but he’s still drifting off, no one able to determine if its because he should have been in bed asleep a good hour ago, or if he’s losing consciousness. We “win a trip to the hospital”.
I’ve been a mum for 9 years and (almost) 1 month, and it occurs to me I’ve never had to do this before.
In we hop, Chippie then decides to stand on me and scream for a good portion of the way. Not sure if its because he should have been asleep an hour ago, or if he has a headache.
Taken to emergency, where he is still absolutely filthy and now has no mark at all to show where he collected his noggin, we’re ditched partway through registering at triage for an “obstructed airway” and he smiles nicely at the nurse when she returned. Emergency is like a war zone of virus infected children (all of whom came in verging on comatose, and were now racing around, squealing, on the playground situated in the waiting area) and we’re placed in the queue, but told to hang around for at least 2 hours, monitor his behaviour etc and report anything if it changes.
Handed a fact sheet on head injuries, I’m sure with a slight Yeah, you’re one of those paranoid mothers who brings her kid in for everything look by one of the nurses. I did have to hand it back to her so she could explain to me what to watch for while we sat. And waited.
We sat for nearly an hour, waiting for the vomiting that can occur, whilst Chippie had his milk, smiled and babbled to everyone who would look at him, then climbed off our laps (Grumpy had arrived to meet us) and went exploring. I read the fact sheet and what to look for. What do they mean “over the next 2-3 days”??? This goes on? And what’s this bit about “over the next few weeks”?
It appears the bump on the noggin affected his speed, increasing it to a level I had not seen it before, nor seen sustained for so long, and given him a propensity to climb up tubular slides, which he previously avoided like the plague, and climb up so far I was forced to follow him in and retrieve him. That was interesting and, apparently entertaining, for all those around us.
We went home after an hour. Partly due to the fact his boisterousness had exceeded all known levels, and I was getting That Look from other parents who claimed their kids were sick (It’s just a virus) and were in emergency coz the doctors were all closed.
Had a bath. And, due to the innate and significantly increased levels of paranoia mothers of children taken off in ambulances experience, he’s coming to bed with me. Grumpy gets one of the kids beds. Secretly, I think he likes that concept – it means he won’t be woken at Stupid O’Clock and I’ll have to deal with it all myself.
Affter reading the fact sheet, I don’t think I’m going to be unparanoid until the “over the next few weeks, watch for” is over.
It’s all about taking the action
Posted by: | CommentsWoke with pounding headache.
Not, this morning, due to being kicked, punched or headbutt by baby.
No, this was a real, proper, pouding headache. I lie there for a bit, attempting to get my bearings and regain some kind of thought process. Any kind of thought process would be nice.
Grumpy reminds me about playgroup and morning tea duties.
He immediately follows this with “Oh, and I’m going to play golf on Friday.”
Might I remind everyone at this point that Friday is the day he has off work. Thus my only day I have the whole day to do my own work.
I don’t think he realised I have a pounding headache.
We had a few, appropriate, words.
Not long after, he informed me that “Ok, well, I’ll grab some stuff for playgroup morning tea on the way home from dropping the kids off at school. I may need to leave playgroup a bit early so I can go to my meeting.”
That sounds like a much better plan.
Manage to get small amount of work done, despite head and stupid, illogical technical issues that seem to crop up when I least need or desire them to.
Grumpy arrives home, has shower and heads off to work, leaving me with Screamer Boy who manages to work himself up into such a state he collapses in my arms and falls asleep. Which is precisely what I’d been encouraging him to do, whilst holding him, gently patting him and rubbing his back, cooing softly into his ear about “going to fucking sleep”. All despite massive pounding head and, now, intense desire to vomit. Complete with overwhelming yearning for things like beds, doonas and super strong pain relief.
Put him into bed where he promptly wakes up, screams some more and I decide to write my entire day off as a lost cause. Along with yearnings for bed, doona and Cuban grade pain relief.
Instead, sit on floor and play some ball rolling game with him and make a list in my head of things I could do that could possibly be more boring. Thankfully, he keeps changing the rules and I have no clue what game he’s playing. So make an iced coffee instead. In the meantime, he’s crawled into my office, trashed the bits that weren’t trashed from his previous trashings, then screams when I take him back out.
Distracted by playing ball again, I amuse myself by picking the ants out of my iced coffee, left abandoned when I went to rescue office. Hang out 7th load of washing for the day, which included the kids’ clothes which have been sitting, unwashed and piling up due to loads created by the Nit Harvest of a few days back, and full day of rain yesterday. I believe they are now down to bathers that are a size too small, and some very old pyjamas left in their drawers for them to wear.
Hanging clothes, Chippie crawling around feet and away from cat food, when it begins to bucket down rain. Chippie crawls further away from me, and further into the rain.
Pounding head and desire to be sick not relieved in any way by drastic change in weather.
At this point, a new emotion washes over me and I have intense desire to defenestrate something.
I’ve done a fair amount of self development over the last few years, and one of the most important things I got out of all I’ve done is “It’s all about taking action”. If you don’t take the action, nothing will happen.
My only problem is … what – or who – do I defenestrate?
First?
That’s more than enough visitors for one night, thank you!
Posted by: | CommentsNit harvesting and house cleaning done, we can finally do the bedtime routine.
Now consisting of “just go to bloody bed, will you!” and psyching self up to do prep-level ‘listening to reading’.
Monkey Boy has mild conniption when “Mu-uuum! He moved my thing!” Unsure who “he” is or what “thing” he moved, but also willing to bet it was diplaced in the bed stripping fiasco of earlier this evening.
That myth laid to rest almost immediately with Godzilla piping up “It wasn’t me! It was my imaginary friend. Mum, it was my imaginary friend.”
Well, I’m terribly sorry, but a plague of lice is all I can deal with this evening. You’re just going to have to invent an imaginary friend at another time. Preferably when I’m slightly less stressed and have had ample time to cater for additonal guests.
Or never.
So, THAT’s what that feeling is
Posted by: | CommentsIn my long, 9 years being a mother, I’ve noticed emotions you rarely come across when you’re not a mum.
Or, rather, more extreme feelings of normal emotions. All the books will bang on and on about the intense love you feel for your own kid, which, pre-kids you think yeah, yeah, I’ve felt love, I know what it’s like and post-birth, you totally get where they’re coming from.
You also become acutely aware that you can experience this intense love, where you could quite happily maim or otherwise kill anyone who crosses your kid, at exactly the same time as you could quite happily leave your kid on the nature strip or send them to work in the mines of Siberia. Or happily maim or otherwise kill them.
It kinda does your head in, that you could have these two extremes at the same time … worse if you stop to ponder the phenomena.
And, after a long day of snot, screaming, kids getting peeved at you coz you laughed when they walked into a pole, you realise it’s the “silly” season (understatement of the last 2 millenia) and don’t have a Christmas list, you realise you’ve got far too much on this weekend, and the kids are banging on and on and on about food and boredom and running around in their undies, shooting at you very loudly because they are Battle Droids and not feeding the cats when asked about a bazillion times, you experience brand new feelings … emotions you can’t quite put a name on.
After several more moments of being shot at, yelled at, whinged at and not being able to find the kaluha (for the cake I’m making tomorrow, not to drink now … although … ) or vodka (not for drinking now … actually, yes, for drinking now) some new feelings and emotions you can find a suitable name to describe them.
Stabby?
Yes, stabby is definitely the word for this emotion …
Laughing at the expense of others is good for your soul
Posted by: | CommentsWalking to school – because apparently it’s “good for you” – with Monkey Boy being all Star Warsy and picking up big sicks and making Lightsabery noises and cutting my head off, and me doing my usual “put the blood stick down, I’m sick of telling you” and Godzilla accidentally getting hit, and hurt, by said stick, me explaining, yet again “This is why I don’t want you wandering around with sticks”, Monkey Boy having restraind tanty, mumbling “Fine then” as he tosses it, then picks up another, smaller stick, when he thinks I’m not looking.
Again we start the “put the stick down before someone gets hurt” conversation, when he points the stick at me and yells “Pew, pew”.
I suggest he do it agian, so’s I can grab the stick out of his hands when he least expects it. He points the stick over his other shoulder, making it harder for me to reach. And harder for him to see what is in front of him.
I reach anyway – for the back of his shirt, so I can prevent the foreseeable. He increases speed and walks DO-ONGGGGGG, into a pole.
I promplty double over and nearly wet my pants laughing.
Well, it was funny! “Funny video” shows play stuff like this all the time. I have NO idea why he got so upset with me and told me I was a horrible mother and the worst one he ever had!
Oh, apparently it’s only funny when it happens to other people that aren’t your kids. Right. I get it now.
Thankfully, Grumpy was there, and gave him a hug and sniggered over his head. Due to the donging or because Monkey Boy was peeved at me, I’m still not sure.
I did give him a hug and check he was ok. When he let me.
Anything else you wanna throw at me?
Posted by: | CommentsGrumpy home this morning to “assist” with the getting ready for school, which, usual, consisted of him feeding Chippie, eating toast, drinkng coffee, reading the paper and being totally oblivious to my increasing-in-volume-and-forcefulness requests that they do various before school tasks like doing things that don’t annoy me and move the morning routine along in the direction we want.
In all fairness, when I reached the point where the temptation for homicide was at it’s peak and articulated this via a “Will you do something with him before I fucking kill him?” he went and did some yelling of his own (although he wasn’t really quite sure what he was supposed to be yelling about), which only served to cause more distress to 6 year old.
Thus, slowing the entire process.
*sigh*
It rained just as they were at that “COME ON WE HAVE TO LEAVE NOW!” stage, giving them an extra 15 minutes, as the opted to take the car.
I gave up at this point, poured another MUG and had a shower (my first in 2 days) and set about working, where all kinds of technical issues, storms and stupid things prevented me from doing much on my list.
Grumpy headed off to work, Chippie had his obligatory 23 minute sleep and spent the afternoon removing clean clothes from the washing basket and tossing them all over the floor, fiddling with the washing machine and locating cat vomit, grabbing a handful and tossing it at me. He managed another two before I managed to grab him and prevent myself from spewing on his head.
Washdown, complete with antibacterial dunking, change of clothes, change nappy which is more wet on outside than inside and it’s off to swimming. Hang towels out, walk inside, storm hits … typical, could have left him out and saved hassle of giving him a washdown.
Get to school early – mostly due to boredom, partly to avoid crazy mums who come out when it rains and drive like fuckwits - stand outside classroom chatting to some mums, listen to other mums laughing loudly and turn to discover my almost 15 month old splashing about in a puddle and having a great time.
Love how other mums are soooo helpful and come to your aid.
Strip off top, as it’s the only one I have with me, and find relief in the fact that the shorts he’s wearing are, in fact, board shorts, so perfect for water of all kinds. Make it to swimming, remove shorts and nappy that is more wet on the outside than the inside, deal with 6 year old tanties from Godzilla, to the point of threatening that he will miss dinner and go to bed as soon as we get home.
He’d already lost swimmng lesson privileges, having been forced to apologise for not participating because “I’m being an obnoxious little brat”. He wussed out, so I said it on his behalf, and he sat on the side while Monkey Boy did his lesson and I had a play with Chippie.
More tanties then it was time to go home …
You rock, Doll.....thanks for such awe inspiring honesty and brilliant laughs.