Archive for Reality Parenting
The Dangers of iPods and Zombies
Posted by: | CommentsA walk up the street was in order.
For two reasons. We were out of coffee and milk, and the kids needed to do something that required more than just their thumb muscles. The standard nagging and persistent requesting and telling ensued and they became clothed and shod. Miraculously. And only after a series of words, placed appropriately in a well structured sentence that included such things as “Lego shop” and “not going” and “unless you get dressed now”.
Ta da!
They have both requested their iPods come along so they can “listen to music”. I can’t see why not. Well, not until we are approximately a metre and a half from the front gate. It is at this point I can see what a terrible idea iPods, children and a 1.5km walk (3 k round trip) is going to be.
Monkey Boy is listening to one song on his, and this, because of the location of the song (located inside a game) requires him to be pulling it out of his pocket and fiddling with the screen to replay it. I put a stop to that.
Godzilla appears to be afflicted by that horrible disorder whereby he is unable to walk and listen to music at the same time. Tragic. He is also intently holding the pocket in which his iPod is located very tightly. This is not helping his ability to coordinate.
We make it to our destination, purchase what we need, send Godzilla back to get another can of cat food, which takes all of ten minutes due to the slow walk; a result of intense listenting and concern for this pocket contents. I complete that task.
The whole concept is starting to freak me out when I had to resort to my behaviour of some six years ago where I was yelling “STOP!” every time they went near a road.
A take a deep, calming breath and, with a shaky-from-stress voice I say “I don’t think bringing your iPods is a good idea. It’s not happening again. This is how people get dead.”
I go on to list the reasons, because “this is how people get dead” is not explanatory enough, apparently.
- It’s dangerous
- You’re not watching where you’re going
- You’re walking into people
- You’re not concentrating
- You’ve nearly stepped onto the road several times withouth looking
- You’re crossing roads without looking or paying attention
Godzilla clearly, immediately grasps exactly what I’m saying.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Especially when you’re singing the song on Plants vs Zombies, that bit that says “there’re zombies on your la-awn” and people think there are zombies on their lawn and they go home and there aren’t any zombies! That’s really annoying.”
Um … yes.
“It would be really funny if people got sucked into their iPods.”
And we went home.
Our New Appliance
Posted by: | CommentsWe have a fabulous vacuum cleaner. Well, I think it’s fabulous. I dont’ actually vacuum, so probably can’t comment properly on it.
But Grumpy uses it a lot. It’s an industrial strength sucker, from our previous business, a wedding reception and function venue. So it’s pretty close to being up to the task of vacuuming our family home.
So, really, we didn’t need a new one. In fact, it wasn’t until quite recently that we even acquired a new one. Quite by accident, we hadn’t consciously gone out to buy one or anything like that.
Just one day … there it was, going about its vacuuming duty in our kitchen. I managed to capture it in the lounge the other night, after a dinner of burritos – always messy. Seems it is capable of turning itself on and off as needed:
Whilst quite impressed with this new cleaner, we were even more amazed at what it demonstrated it could do!
It was able to manoeuvre itself so it could reach under couches and the coffee table, and a variety of other places we wouldn’t have thought to vacuum otherwise.
AND, how cool is this? It has an inbuilt facility that causes it to reject any foreign matter that isn’t good for it’s inner machinery and leaves it for your more conventional vacuum cleaner to deal with!
We refer to it as the Chippie-3000.
Also, our floors are now cleaned more promptly than previously. Especially when cheese is involved …
*sigh*
In my place
Posted by: | CommentsAfter wagging basketball yesterday morning (late night, slightly off child etc) our morning went from scheduled, to re-planned to complete change of plans.
Monkey Boy still had gymnastics, Grumpy had to go into work, but presented the illusion he was going to remain supine under the doona for several hours longer and the shopping needed doing. Grumpy arise form the near-dead and threw the morning into chaos by offering to take Monkey Boy. The upside was, I got to take two kids shopping and kill the hours between gymnastics start and finish, as opposed to taking three kids after gymnastics.
Done! With Chippie screaming as I put him in the car (Wanna watch, Thomas, don’t wanna go!), buckled him in (Not in here, wanna sit dere!), drove to shopping (No, don’t go dis way, DON’T. Go dat way!), drove to the upper car park (No, not up here. Go dere!), attempted to put him in the trolley (No. Don’t wanna go in dere!), placed him beside the trolley and head into the supermarket (WANNA SIT IN DA TROLLEY!).
Shopping then completed with interjections at the end of every second isle by Godzilla; “Are we going to the counters, now?”
Until I advised him that if he kept saying it we would be longer as I had to keep stopping to tell him to be quiet, please stop, please stop asking, not yet, no, we’re nearly done, will you please shut up now, no, seriously, shut up, if you keep asking we’ll be longer becuase I have to keep stopping to tell you to shut up!
And he stoppped.
Enough time to go home, stuff shopping items in various places of storage and head off to collect Monkey Boy, whom had a fabulous morning, did well, been asked to attend a second class during the week as he’s really improving and should be doing the harder competitions. Arrive home.
Monkey Boy, all happy only moments ago, looks at me, goes pale, says “I’m gonna be sick” and retches over the table, adorned with various bits of imporant info, the Census form for Tuesday night, today’s paper that I haven’t looked at, and yesterday’s paper that also hasn’t been molested by my eyes. I also think the one from Tuesday last week is there.
Mothering Instincts kick in and I yell “RUN! Do not vomit on the table, go!” and he does.
Many years ago, I was holding back the hair of my friends as they vomited into toilets. Now I’m doing it for my ten year old son.
Note to self: Must get his hair trimmed. SOON!
Thankfully, it’s not due to overingestion of alcohol, and I wish to remain in the disillusion that it never will be. I just hope he has friends to hold his hair back for him when the time comes.
He was then feeling so appalling bad he had to lie on the couch and demand to watch this video, and have that drink of water and the like.
He then proceeded to eat the equivalent of an entire pizza that I’d made for lunch, and throw that up a mere hour and a half later.
*sigh*
What a waste of pizza, I think.
Demand the entire household go for some quiet time; choose a place of repose and then damn well repose. I chose my bed and good book. After dismissing Grumpy and telling him to find his own quiet place, as I really just wanted and needed space for me, Monkey Boy clambers in.
He needs his Mum. He needs a Mummy Cuddle. Mummy Cuddles are way better than Daddy Cuddles when you are sick, apparently, as they make you feel better, and make you feel loved and just make you feel good.
I couldn’t help but feel a burst of pride.
And took the opportunity to mention to Grumpy, ”He may have wanted you to go to Harry Potter, but he wants me to cuddle him, cos I”m better!”
He remained in our bed for the afternoon and evening, causing a reshuffle of sleeping arrangements. He wanted his mum and wanted to be near the toilet. I’m usnure which one he wanted more. I also wanted just one night with no snoring going on next to me, so went with the idea and suggested, nicely, Grumpy sleep in Monkey Boy’s bed.
Sorted.
I check Monkey Boy one more time, before sitting down to watch a movie, and pass Godzilla in the hall, walking towards our bedroom. He’s been missing his brother. And intermittently going in to annoy him in one way or another. Which, in turn, annoys me.
“What are you doing? Where are you going? Leave him alone,” I say.
“Well, there’s vomit on the toilet in there,” he informs me, pointing towards the main bathroom.
“Well, what are you doing about it?” I ask him.
“I dunno,” he replies. “You’re the one that cleans the toilet!”
And he heads towards my bathroom.
Moments later, I hear Monkey Boy at it again and run to the bedroom. I envisage a possible Gozilla sitting on toilet whilst Monkey Boy is vomitting on him scenario. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.
He’s dry retching his guts up onto the towel I’d thoughtfully spread over our pillows, as Godzilla sits on our loo, singing happily and oblivious to everything else … I gently rub Monkey Boy’s head, offer him a small drink, wipe his face with a cool, wet cloth, wrap the spewy towel up, bypass the main bathroom and wipe the toilet in there down, head to the laundry to stuff everythign in the wash, discover the load I put on this morning is still in there, and set about hanging that out … sure, it’s raining … but it’s quiet outside …
Sad and Exciting and Brain Explody
Posted by: | CommentsI’m a wee bit sad.
You see, some five years ago I was a uni student, wedding function co-ordinator and organiser and sometimes waitress, mother to funny, clever, challenging four year old, and some crazy two year old that had this weird condition where he was able to wake at 6.00am every morning and be cheery! Cheery! Who does that?
Anyhoo, I was also battling the alluring call of a deep dark pit, promising to wrap me in a comfy cosy doona and allowing me to lie in the foetal position for days on end … It was tempting. Oh, so tempting.
Alas, my brain wasn’t prepared to settle for that, and it had me up and about, searching for some kind of support. Actually, I was a member on a forum for business mums, with an idea I had and wanted to develop (you know, in my spare time), where I was getting some support, but not what I needed. It was mostly support for working form home. Also, whilst a great community at the time, they had a “no swearing” rule, and I thought “what the fuck?” and, well, I needed some parenty type support where people actually admitted to things being a bit shit at times.
I was, to be honest, going to kill myself if I had to endure one more “he did a poo on the toilet – squee!”, like they were the only kid ever in the world to poo in a toilet – even without the looming depression. Seriously, who needs to listen to that shit? I just couldn’t get into that kind of parent-speak. It was boring!
Worse, I read, on a “parent support forum”, a women who was expression what I felt. Only slightly more mild than what I felt. She wasn’t coping. She didn’t want to be around her kids. She just couldn’t stand the crying and whinging. She just wanted to get in a car and run away and leave them there. And possibly not come back.
I felt a connection. A relationship. I understood what she was feeling, and felt almost … normal.
Until I read the responses; how could she think like that about her children; what sort of mother was she that would even contemplate leaving her children alone; she should put her children first; she should be there for her children at all times; she should love and nurture them; she was a terrible parent; she was a bad mother … and I felt so alone … and wrong … and inadequate … and bad.
Sadly, this seemed to be the common theme; be there for your kids, no matter what; if you were angry/frustrated/sick of them, then you were a bad mother … and also, you weren’t allowed to swear. Nor, it seemed, were you entitled to a sense of humour.
So, I did what any desperate enough would do, and I created a wesbite; a support forum for Mums where you could swear, joke, laugh and, most importantly, be totally and completely honest and not only not be ostracised for it, but be supported in what you were actually saying. And probably laughed at.
I registered a domain name, I sorted some hosting and I got me a logo and branding. This was it:
This logo is the reason I’m a little sad. These real mums have ben with me from day dot, in one form or another. Until this morning. When I relaunched my website – Real Mums, and it’s ongoing community – sometimes called Bad Mother’s Club, for those who feel like and relate to being a bad mother, and sometimes Bad Real Mother’s Club, for those who know they’re not bad, just reality sometimes causes them to be not as perfect as society expects them to be.
My site has a new look … and it has way more potential for growth, changing society, recreating villages and – the bestest bit – allowing the already fabulous Club community to become even more of a community and do many more amazing things that we probably can’t even imagine.
So I farewell my real mums, and their bright blue and pink outlook. They will remain in my heart forever and I will miss them.
And I welcome my new Real Mum, whom sooooo many have commented they can relate to , and know just what she is feeling and thinking; because they think and feel the same …
(Of course, she has been around as a Bad Mother’s Club member for a while, she’s now just realised she is, in fact, a Real Mum)
And I welcome all of you to my community – which really isn’t mine any more, as it has been created by the amazing women who are already on there and have been for a while now.
I hope to see you there soon:
Well, that just makes me feel super special
Posted by: | CommentsAww, there are moments in your life when you’re just made to feel like … like … well, crap really.
There is Monkey Boy sitting on the floor, happily playing with his Star Wars LEGO when, I’m sure, he was asked to be doing something helpful.
Nute Gunray has lost his hat. Which is not surprising really, given there are LEGO bits from one end of the house to the other, including under couches, under the fridge, under the beds and on the ceiling fan.
I’m also a little surprised as to why Nute Gunray is so disappointed as, quite frankly, it is a ridiculous looking hat and if I were him I’d have lost it on purpose. Although, Nute Gunray does look like one cranky bastard and perhaps the hat is a blessing in disguise as it detracts from his face.
I hold Nute Gunray up next to my face, mimic his look and relate my concerns regarding spreading of LEGO around house to Monkey Boy and repeat the standard blah, blah. blah pertaining to mess and likely lack of missing items should the mess be tidied. Or, better still, not made at all.
Blah, blah, blah.
To which he responded as really should have been expected.
No, not “I hate you”, nor even “you’re the worst mother in the world”. Not even “it wasn’t my fault, it’s not fair!”
None of those.
More along the lines of “I can’t tell the difference between you and Nute Gunray. I think this one on the left is you, and Nute Gunray is on the right.”
Humph. I guess it depends on who’s left and right you are referring to. I suspect he is being a smartarse. I mean, I know I’m short, but I’m definitely not that short. I know I’m taller than Nute Gunray, cos I’ve stood on the fucker and several of his cronies in the dark.
And I can be way grumpier if need be!
I am, however, distracted by a yell from Godzilla, who happens to be in the bath with Chippie. I meander up to the bathroom, where I discover Chippie has done a remarkably large poo in the bath and Godzilla is unsure as to what to do.
My evening concludes with refereeing a screaming, “I’m right and you’re wrong” match between Godzilla and Grumpy Pants as I am attempting to jab largish bits of toddler poo down the plughole with the aid of a butter knife.
*sigh*
How to salvage spilt wine
Posted by: | CommentsAnother, incredibly busy day, little of which went to plan.
Had to choose between attending a meeting or staying home and working. Chose the latter, and ended up on phone meetings anyway.
Did a radio interview (taped) for Fox FM, follwed by much needed MUG, a live radio interview wtih ABC Coast, schedule another, organise with Grumpy to do Monday Evening Mayhem and I would grab my second walk to collect Chippie. All nicely planned around the time organised for next radio interview.
Obviously, I was a little too organised and the toddler, with his incredible perceptual abilities, wakes from his nap at childcare with a temperature of 40 degrees C and I’m called to come and collect him.
Arrive home where he happily sits verging on comatose, and saisfying me that he is, indeed, sick and not just extraordinarily perceptive. Until, of course, 30 seconds before my interview, when he decides a screaming tanty is in order.
I rummage through cupboards and the fridge, extracting food and placing it into bowls and cups, sit him in his high chair and place it in front of the babysitter, Thomas The Tank Engine DVD.
He’s onto me and my attempts at distracting him with food! Argh! If he cathces onto that, I’ve nothing left.
Wait on hold, before my live, on air interview, and utilise time to partake in further rummaging and serving of food.
Phew! Have overcome issue. He doens’t need distracting with food. He needs distracting with LOTS of food. And a DVD.
Interview completed in sutiable quiet, prepare dinner, Grumpy and kids home, and sit to eat. Yell at kids re licking the table of dropped foody bits.
Chippie, not surprisingly, refuses to eat.He does, however, embark on a sneezing fit, and Protective Mother Instincts kick in, I throw my hand across to remove his bowl so he doens’t smash his face on it and break it (it’s the last of that set, and I like it) and knock my 3/4 full glass of wine across the table.
A small amount ends up on the table, where I promply lick it off. A majority seeps into Chippie’s jacket, so I quickly remove it, squeeze what I can back into the glass, then suck on it whilst I wipe up the bit that managed to fling itself halfway across the room and into the middle of the floor.
That done, it was well and truly time for bath and bed. I have to be up early in the morning as have another big day.
I’ll just have a glass of wine before I do.
Can we start Wine O’Clock again, please?
Posted by: | CommentsExcruciating headache from yesterday, the one that culminated in near-migraine and had me hit the pillow at 8.37 last night, had subsided considerably upon waking this morning.
Toddler appeared to be completely over his vomitty episodes. That is, until he sat in his high chair, contemplated the breakfast (weetbix and yogurt) that had just been placed in front of him, and vomited into that.
Right. No breakky for him.
Off on a walk, under guise of dropping kids at school. Or is that the other way around? Anyhoo, kids dumped, coffee had with hubby and toddler and it was time to go home and tackle To Do List.
It was a large list, but I managed to work my way through it, adding a few bits and pieces as I went, just so I could add some more ticks and feel like I’d acheived more. There are some days you feel so far from functioning that you need to do what you can to make yourself feel better. The rest of the house don’t contribute much in that area.
Except for this evening, when Godzilla handed me a flower. A squished, mangled flower.
“Here, I got this flower for you, Mummy,” he said, tossing it at me. “It’s been in my pocket all day.”
Awwwwwww.
The Favourite Uncle had arrived, with the intention of taking Grumpy and I out for dinner as a thank you for something we’d done for him, completely forgetting he is our babysitter and we were unable to work out the logistics of that one. So we cooked him dinner instead.
Popped in to finish off a teensy job, looked up and realised I’d missed Wine O’Clock. A much anticipated Wine O’Clock, complete with much needed wine.
Raced out to pour self a wine – apparent hints along lines of “pour me a wine!” were seemingly far too cryptic for rest of household to understand – and promptly knock it over, spilling most of it under the toaster. Should make for an interesting breakky tomorrow morning. Must remember that in the morning.
Drink what is left in glass in order to steady hand so can refill it.
(This post sponsored by Real Mums Wine Club - god love ‘em!)
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 have to do everything around here?
Posted by: | CommentsAwoke feeling particularly crap, and shunted out of bed because Grumpy flat out refused to get out and let me have a sleep in.
Literally, flat out, on his back and snoring like some kind of herd of demented warthogs.
I gave up arguing and hopped up. So, by the time Monkey Boy had invited a friend over and he’d gone and Grumpy left for work and Chippie had had a sleep and woke up screaming, I was had it. Well and truly zonked.
All three happily entrenched in constructing a Don’t You Bring Your Toys and Shit Out Into The Lounge Room train throughout the entire living area, dining and lounge areas included, under the coffee table, up the side of the wall unit and over the ceiling fan, I mentioned to Monkey Boy I was off for a hot bath and to please ensure no one played with any sharp implements or climbed anything higher than the picture rail.
Ahhhhhh. I slip out of my pyjamas – it was 3 in the afternoon, after all – and into a hot, bubbly, aromatherapeutic bath. And had a bit of a read of my book. In peace.
If you define “peace” as the not so distant sounds of selfish, inconsiderate and egotistical toddler touching the trains that technically belong to anally perfectionistic and “stick to my rules” nine year old. He is seriously unable to cope when things don’t go the way of those in his head. Godzilla was fine, until Chippie took Monkey Boy’s train, causing untold chaos and trauma there, and smashed Godzilla on some body part or other, creating futher trauma and a scream equivalent to that of someone having their leg blown off by one of those bombs that also contains nails and is really hurty when it blows your leg off and shoots nails into other body parts.
I did the only thing I coud. I submerged. Fully. Took a great, big, huge breath and held my head under for as long as I could.
What is that noise? I can’t place it?
Up I come, Chippie is standing over the bath yelling toddler-like gibberish at me and smashing a train against the edge of the bath.
Mmmm, soothing.
So I hold my head under again.
“MUM!” I hear Monkey Boy scream, only slightly less screamy, given my submerged state.
“Are you drowning?”
I shake my head, still under water, holding my nose so water doesn’t go back up.
“Oh, good. Otherwise, I’d have to be the boss of everyone until Dad gets home.”
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.
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.