Archive for support for parents
Of poo and sand and tipping points
Posted by: | CommentsA few moments of quite at home to catch up on my To Do List, then I am left alone with Smallest Boy Child for many, many hours.
During this time, I am to ensure the house is ready for an Open For Inspection this evening, swimming bags organised for this afternoon and my sanity to remain intact in order that we may all survive it all with minal physical and psychological damage.
I was doing ok. I’d accepted that Time In My Office was a mere fantatsy, and I did what I could to tidy the house and clean bathrooms before Chippie discovered I’d put all his toys away, neatly, and entered the realm of the Toy Room, located the toys he was playing with yesterday, and a multitude of others he probably can’t remember we ever owned. The only place that can go is Toys Scattered Everywhere And Mummy Losing The Plot Completely.
So I took him for a walk to purchase coffee and milk instead. We wandered past a Kikki-K, which has the file organiser racks I wanted in order to safely house each of the projects I’m working on and keep them within easy reach on my desk. I was offered a ‘buy three get one free’ deal and found myself wandering the store, trying to locate post-it type notes that I could actually use and leaving, dumbfounded as to what the point of Kikki-K even is, aside from being “pretty, but useless”.
(And also explains why I created my own range of organisers …)
Arrive home, get the house in as tip-top shape as possible, leaving only the kids to put their clothes away and clear any and all surfaces in their rooms of any item that may or may not be (mis)construed as mess/clutter/personal/fun/enjoyable or that renders the impression that people actually live in this house that potential buyers, tire kickers and sticky beaks are wandering through later on.
Chippie, having been sent outside to eat his lunch of strawberry jam on toast, brings his plate, complete with uneaten crusts, inside. He yells, from the kitchen, that he would like more toast, please. He then wanders up the hall, towards the bedroom I’m tidying, and promptly tips the crumbs and crusts on his platein onto the Just Vacuumed Floor.
Yay.
Leaving plenty of time to do all that, I wander up to the school to collect said children, only to receive a phone call from the Vice Principal when we’re a block away, asking if I will be at school so we may discuss an incident Monkey Boy was involved in today.
“Sure,” I sigh. “Why the hell not?”
And sigh again.
The discussion not only cuts into the kids tidying time (although it does significantly reduce the amount of time we will be at home between school and swimming, thereby leaving almost no time for them to make any mess whatsoever) and leaves me feeling extraordinarily guitly, as I have been drumming into him for years about being compassionate and understanding of other kids, and not to take so much personally.
He’s like this naturally, so it’s not been hard. Except, clearly he’s been holding it all in and trying, as best an eleven-year-old boy can be, understanding. Today, he was pushed too far, trodden on once too often, and treated like shit to a point where he and a kid twice his size got into fisticuffs. The VP encouraged me to encourage him to “speak openly about how he was feeling”.
Excellent point, and I can’t help but feel I’ve totally fucked up.
I nearly cried.
Then I walked away and did. That was partly due to my calling for Chippie, who came racing over. What with my being all distracted, he’d had plenty of time to play. He’d chosen the sandpit. He was head-to-toe sand.
Even more Yay.
Home we go, where I stumble on a dog poo the size of a small chihuahua. What fucking arsehole lets their dog shit in the middle of a footpath across from a school?
I’m now fuming.
We arrive home, where I shout instructions from the front door as I strip Chippie of his sand-covered clothes before he enters, and hose my shoes off.
Fuckers.
“Put your clothesaway! Tidy your rooms! Get everything off everything! DO NOT EAT anything! Do not make a mess! No, do not use the toilet! Do not wash your hands! Put that away! Do NOT touch that! Hurry UP!”
And I cannot wait to leave. Am feeling like Nazi Bitch Face From Hell right now and wonder how long before anyone snaps.
We are now running minutes late for swimming lessons, so I encourage the kids to run in whilst I find a park.
Normally, I can’t wait to get home, but as the inspection time is at a stupid hour, I am forced to delay it all. I tell the kids we’ll get hot chips and chicken for dinner and attempt to time it so that we can be home as early as we are allowed, without crashing the inspecton.
Monkey Boy has neglected to bring a change of clothes, so wanders to the car, wrapped in a beach towel. There goes my plan to send him in to purchase chips and chicken. Leave them all sitting in the car whilst I do so, and my order is taken by a man who had ordered the same thing, but he decided his need was greater than mine, and said “I was here first”.
Had it not been for my need to have quiet time, away from the kids, albeit standing in a brightly lit chicken takeaway place, he may have been tackled to the ground and had his meal forcefully removed.
I may also have sworn loudly at him. As it was, I was using all my energy to just breath, so he was in luck.
Make it home again, eat, have wine and feel slightly better.
Remember Monkey Boy has a test for a high school tomorrow, and he is being a right little arsehead.
My best of intentions aimed at having a calm, loving and empowering evening are shattered by his smart arsedness, my distress over the incident at school and the compounding stress of life as we know it right now … a screaming match ensues and I find myself on the kitchen floor in tears.
The only saving grace is that Monkey Boy is nowhere near as affected by my behaviour as I am, and he’s happily in bed. Reading.
Yay.
I am not immune
Posted by: | CommentsI had hand, foot and mouth disease once.
Like, two years ago and not when I was three or six or some acceptable age for contracting Coxsackie Virus.
I got most of other childhood diseases out of the way when I was an actual child, so that was nice. However, I am still not immune to the odd cold or sore throat virus that enters my home via my various offspring, or my spouse. Most times, I managed just a small does that’s easily tended to with Panadienne and some sleep.
One thing I’m, sadly, not that immune to is anything remotely Gag Inducing. Sadly, I passed on my weak gag reflex to my eldest son, who, in turn has caused mine to weaken even further. The thought of cat food makes me want to vomit. I won’t tell you what my body does when I actually smell cat food.
I can’t physically touch food that has a teensy bit that’s gone mushy or mouldy; I have to turn my head and tip the whole thing into the bin. Or stand at the door and yell for Grumpy to come and deal with it and scream like it’s a whopping great, bird eating spider that has come to devour me. Seriously. He then rolls his eyes and leaves it for another few days because I’m being all “dramatic” and tells me to “get over it, it’s just food”.
He doesn’t understand!
Also, he thinks he’s funny.
So, after dinner tonight, where Monkey Boy’s sore throat of earlier today – the one that was easily fixed with panadol (but not tablets, capsules or the dissolvable ones – they make him gag) and running around and shooting his brothers – got worse whilst we were out at a restaurant for dinner. He didn’t eat much, which is always of concern to me, as he usually eats copious amounts, then picks at leftovers.
He was near tears when we head home, and, in typical Family Fashion, he informs us he needs to vomit. There are, of course, no plastic bags in the car that we keep for such purpose. That would be insane. Why, only last week there were at least three, because we didn’t need them last week. We needed them NOW and there are none.
We are, as is also inevitable, stopped at a set of traffic lights at a considerably sized intersection. We tell him to stick his head out the window. It is the best we can do under the circumstances, until Grumpy can drive forward and we can pull over to a safe place for him to expel his stomach contents.
I tie his hair back, rub his back and speak calmly to him, whilst giving myself a good talking to about not throwing up on the back of the head I’m trying to sooth. I do well. I am becoming immune to this – hurrah!
We arrive home, and he hops into the bath – a hot one as now he is “really cold”. Grumpy deals with the car. I do pretend it is because I am all nurturing and caring and “want to be there for my son”, but really, the thought of hosing down the car will, well, let’s just say going out for dinner would have been a complete waste of money.
I managed to get some more panadol down his throat and encourage him to gargle some sore throat gargle.
This is the bit I couldn’t do. It set him off gagging and retching, which only had the effect of causing me to gag and retch along with him.
The poor little sausage did the best he could before it all got too much and he spewed into the toilet. I near on pushed him aside … but managed a deep breath and to walk out of the room.
The best I could do from there was put him safely in his bed, place a towel under his head and silently wish as hard as I could that there was to be no more spew from anyone this evening. Can we make that “year”?
What I do know
Posted by: | CommentsI like to think I’m pretty ok as a mother.
I get some stuff “right” and some stuff “wrong” and I do yell and swear, and cuddle my kids and watch The Simpsons at the same time, and read books to them and take them to fun places.
I make them lunch every day and cook them dinner every night. Except those times Grumpy Pants does, or my 11 year old does.
I like to think that I’m teaching him good, life skills be letting him cook dinner, and not placing him into some hideous, dangerous position that has people shaking their heads in disbelief at my despicability.
Truth is, I really have no idea how this whole thing will pan out, what my kids will grow up to be like. I have no idea what the final outcome will be. I won’t even know what they will tell their therapists. Thank you Client Confidentiality.
What I do know, however, is that I suck at making rainbow jelly.
Today is my third attempt in the last 12 or 18 months of making rainbow jelly and I have fucked it up. Again.
I love variety. I love the unexpected. I love a night out.
Posted by: | CommentsI had to make an extremely difficult at the commencement of this year.
Extremely difficult.
See, I have plans. Big ones. Most of which involved writing.
(As an aside, I had a massive epiphany last year … and realised, completely and fully, that I am a writer. That’s it. No fighting it any more. No pretending I’m not. No just saying it on my profile pages and not believing it. I am. I just am.)
And creating resources for a topic I’m extremely passionate about. Extremely.
Unfortunately, this was to come at a price. That price was looking a lot like Mums’ Night Out! I had to seriously rethink it. For 2012 anyway.
Then something quite unexpected happened. As I was in the foetal position thinking what do I do?! I love Mums’ Night Out! But I love writing. And I have a list. A List. And … I don’t know what to do …” I popped up for a brief moment to check my email and there was an email in it.
In fact, there were several. But one had “Mums’ Night Out” in the subject line and was from a lady whom I regard every so highly and think is amazingly brilliant and inspirational and I love her (but not in that sort of way). She had an idea she wanted to run by me.
(Me? Me?)
Good thing I love variety. But only good variety, not like the kind of variety that comes in a chocolate Snack bar, or the bottom of the fruit bowl.
And I also don’t mind the unexpected. I don’t like when I found a moth in my trackie pants leg when I was walking to school and on the corner of a main road and entertaining everyone. Or last week when a bug crawled up, unexpectedly, up the back of my shirt but on the inside.
Euww.
But this email was a nice unexpected variety, and gave me an awesome way to deal with my time constraints and the need to continue Mums’ Night Out! – because I LOVE a night out. Several, in fact.
What we have ended up with, between we two overly busy and creative Mums of three, is Mums’ Night Out! 2012 featuring An Unexpected Variety Show!
Hurrah!
Or, perhaps An Unexpected Mums’ Night Out Variety Show?
Either way – I’ve seen Jenny and this particular Show before and It. Is. AWESOME!
(Not a paid endorsement)
And so funny you’ll have tears running down your legs.
So brilliant – and appropriate to those who usually attend Mums’ Night Out! that it was just perfect to be able to build a night out around it.
I’ve rambled haven’t I?
Anyhoo, Mums’ Night Out! 2012 is booked. It kicks off with wine and An Unexpcted Variety Show. It is followed – for those who wish – by food, dancing and the “usual shenanigans”, oh, and another glass of wine.
You can BOOK NOW! at the Mums’ Night Out! website … www.mumsnightout.com.au
Oh, yeah, it’s on Friday the 13th of April at The Butterfly Club in South Melbourne … I left that till last because date and place is irrelevant. It’s so awesome you’ll do what you can to be there 
You can find out more about the show and Jenny at http://www.jennywynter.com – she’s ace!
Oops – one final, and very important thing – there’re less tickets on sale this year. Much less – because the venue can only hold 50 of us for the Show. Last year sold at out over twice that number, so, you know … buy your ticket asap so you don’t miss it, yeah?
Like NOW!
We’re all going to the zoo
Posted by: | CommentsAfter a solid few days of getting stuff done, I needed … needed … to get out of the house!
So the zoo it was.
We’re we packed snacks and drinks and piled into the car, locked the doors, drove off, returned to house to collect Arna the Manky Elephant for Chippie and head off.
Chippie wanted to see the elephants- we were not going “to the zoo”, we were “goin’ see ELEPHANTS!” In a very excited voice of course.
Sadly, we entered via the “wrong” entrance, the one furthest from the elephants, which meant every time we stopped to look at an animal or two, we’d get “Tha’s not elephant. Wanna elephant!”
This is always fun.
He was momentarily distracted by the new baboon enclosure, which had the children in raptures of laughter and seeing if they could outdo each other with the volume of saying the word “bum”.
Chippie, delighted with the display before him, sat on the ground, gripping Arna tightly, and bounced up and down singing “pink bum, pink bum” and giggling hysterically. Around us were children of equal age, frowning and whispering “he said ’bum’” to their cat-bum-mouthed mothers.
I had a moment of “whoopsie” and felt I’d better make more of an effort to shut him up – its not that I wasn’t making any – when I thought “hang on, my kid is laughing- I think I’ll stick with the happy kid, thanks” and we went on our way to traumatise some other parents.
Of course, out zoo trips are always educational, and I find myself reading out the information signs and explaining why the lions can’t climb the fences, that the tapirs snout is to suck the faces off obnoxious children and the taipan is the most dangerous snake in Australia and if you don’t stop asking me when we can have lunch, given it is only 10.26, I will feed you to the frigging taipan!
This it was that the next two hours proferred a mundane repetiton of “I wanna see a arphant!” “There it is, saw it, lets go” and “Can we have lunch now?” at every enclosure.
Every. Single. Enclosure.
Until I calmly said “Fine. We’ll fucking eat then!”
It seems we were either inadvertently following the mums and kids from the baboon enclosure, or we’d, coincidentally done the circle and met up with them again. Typical.
We ate, we wandered around, made it to the elephants at approximately the same time as every other person in the southern states of Australia and left ten minutes after we should have.
And we leave, discussing why it is we have a Friends of the Zoo memebrship.
Then remember its because, this way, we get to see all the animals. Sure, it is over a period of 5 years the way we seem to do it, but at least we get to see them all …..
The List of Christmas Grumps
Posted by: | CommentsIn light of all the fun (I use the term loosely) I had with my dearly beloved and the Christmas Present Wrapping Festivities of earlier, I came up with a list of people who should be rounded up and shot sent away to Arsehead Island for a while.
People who say “I don’t want anything”
I don’t care. It is Christmas and a time of giving, and I, personally, like to use this opportunity to say “thanks” for whatever it is you have done for me this year, or just say “I love you”. Of course, I don’t have to at this time of year, but I choose to.
When you say “I don’t care” you are depriving me of doing something that makes me happy. So fuck off and tell me what you want. You’re creating more stress than necessary.
People who say “this will do” during the purchase and/or wrapping process
“It’s the thought that counts.” Bullshit … you have put no thought into this at all, and you are depriving one person of feeling just a little bit special and loved.
I know I’m a bit over the top with this “gifts” thing and not everyone is like it, but a little effort really is appreciated.
People who are so angsty about car parks that they yell at you and won’t move out of the way when you are trying to leave the place because you were organised!
I just want to leave. Please get out of my way. I know you’re paranoid, but, really, not everyone is after your spot.
People who are trying to return the biscuit cutters they purchased because they are the “wrong shape” and have opened the packet, and do not have a receipt, then throw the cutters at the chicks behind the counter
Check the shapes before your purchase. Or, I dunno, maybe try being a bit spontaneous and give different shaped cutters a go. Or keep your receipt.
The absolute arseheads who open the little packs of Lego Minifigures and either steal the little person inside and/or put the opened pack back in the box … you are an arsehead!
I don’t like you much at all. The whole point of the minifigures is the surprise and it’s no one else’s fault your child is a spoilt little arsehead brat and that you can’t cope with a frigging $4.50 minifigure tanty because “it’s not they one little Brohdee wanted”.
It is disappointing and annoying when you go to grab some and half the figging packs are open, and you get to the checkout and discover, despite your efforts, that you have managed to grab an opened and pilfered pack and have to leave your 3 year old at the checkout and race back to get an in tact pack for your kids because they can cope with not getting exactly what they want.
You are an arsehead!
Those who affect a grumpy nature at this time of year, every year, as though it is expected of them
It’s psychosomatic people. This means “it is all in your head”. Get some help for that, ok? Preferably before next year. Thanks.
The overly cheery
If you’re going to be so fucking bright and festive, the least you could do is share your prozac milkshakes or hash cookies with the rest of us, ok?
Or stop faking it and get on the boat with the rest of the Grumps.
An open letter to Vodka-O
Posted by: | CommentsBefore I begin, Vodka-O is an Australian company who make “organic vodka” designed to contain fewer impurities and reduce the likelihood of hangovers. Also, it tastes delicious.
Dear Vodka-O,
Some twelve months or so back, I won a bottle of your life-saving elixer through a colleague’s blog. You may have heard of her; Mrs Woog of Woogsworld?
Anyhoo, it is a fabulous concoction that is more than willing to be utilised to make other equally fabulous concoctions. It has also been my friend on many a stressful occasion.
Obviously, I don’t still have the same bottle, and have purchased a number since then. Whatever that number may be I cannot recall, but is has nothing to do with the consumption of alcohol. I swear.
Lately, things have been incredibly stressful for me (my 11 year old just locked my 8year old outside, and mooned him through the window). This is how I discovered a serious flaw in the ingredients and/or manufacture of your Liquid Of The Gods.
You see, after a particularly frazzle-inducing, tantrummy kind of day, I turned to my most recent bottle of Vodka-O, conveniently located beside my coffee machine and soda stream, and discovered something horrible.
It is evaporating!
Yes, I do believe the organicness of your product causes it to evaporate at a much greater level than say, the wine in my fridge. It, too, is also evaporating, but at a much lower rate.
I swear each time I look at it, there is less and less in the bottle. Now, I don’t partake in your godsend every night, and may go a week, or even a month without a drop of Vodka-O, so when I need it, I like it to be as full as I left it the last time I partook. And it’s not.
This is adding considerably to my frustrations, particularly at this time of you.
Perhaps you could check your manufacturing process? Or the ingredients used?
Is this just another fallout of global warming? Is it affected by the carbon tax, baby bonus or paid maternity leave?
One would have thought the baby bonus and/or paid maternity leave scheme would have increased your sales, yes?
Perhaps you could shed some light on this phenomena that is happening in my very own kitchen, alongside the toaster, for me?
Or suggest a good psychologist?
I await in anticipation for your response. You may find me curled around an empty bottle of Vodka-O, but I’ll let go long enough to read your reply.
Warmest and much love to you at this ever so “festive” time of year,
Mad Cow
xo
Is anyone else having similar issues? With Vodka-O or any other alcoholic product? Especially this time of year?
The Last Day of School
Posted by: | CommentsToday was the last day of school for Victorian kids.
The last day of the school year for my kids.
I’m so pleased to see they have come such a long way and learnt so much this year.
Like … we’re ten minutes away from leaving and Godzilla, after having danced on the bed, naked, and saying “I am getting dressed!”, informs me that he needs to dress in Hawaiian theme today.
Which is handy, as my fttish with all things Hawaiian has led me to start a collection of brightly coloured, floral shirts in all sizes and I had plenty for him to choose from.
Oh, wait. I don’t have that fetish, nor do I have anything that resembles a Hawaiian shirt which he may wear to school today. So he wears an orange t-shirt and I don’t care.
We make it out the door, where Monkey Boy advises me he needs to wear a Santa hat for the performance his class is doing in assembly this morning.
I explain this is something he may like to give me a little more notice about, given the aforementioned hats are likely to either be in storage, or in the unopened box retrieved from storage when the Christmas tree arrived, and is now stuffed somewhere out of site and possibly inaccessible.
And I don’t care that he doesn’t have one.
We deliver them at school, head home for a crazy day of meetings, shopping for dinner and running around like idiots, cramming 6 hours of stuff into 4 given the early dismissal time.
We collect them, arrive home and within 38 minutes of the school holidays I’m well and truly over hearing about Star Wars, Lego, Lego Star Wars and Plants vs Zombies.
How long till the school holidays are over?
Motherfail
Posted by: | CommentsSome days, you just can’t get it right.
This week has been one of those days for me.
I ended up eating toast I didn’t want for breakfast earlier this week (yesterday? It’s been so busy with such long days, I have no idea what’s going on) because Chippie asked for toast. When I say “asked” I mean he yelled the word at me.
Then he asked.
I can be stubborn, too.
Then he seemed to realise he didn’t want toast and demanded porridge. So I put porridge in a bowl. Then he did the Running On The Spot thing and cried and said “NO, I want porridge” until I said “What the fuck is that? A block of flats?”
This is a common question in our household.
It was soon determined that the “porridge” he wanted is, in fact, not porridge at all, but NutriGrain. My analness sees all our cereal varieties transferred into Tuppeware cereal containers and lined up in the one cupboard. Therefore all the cereals in said containers are “porridge”.
I failed to recognise this, then determine which particular “porridge” he specifically wanted.
That sorted, I made school lunches and ate toast.
Chippie sat at the table and ate his porridge-NutriGrain.
Chippie then came over, did his Screaming Dancing On The Spot Thingy in front of me, because I’d eaten his toast.
“I need my toast!” he yelled at me.
I threw my hands up in exasperation and mumbled, “and I need you to shut the fuck up”.
Still, that wasn’t the worst I did this week.
Today was far worse and caused much more trauma.
He found the balloon he’d been given yesterday when we were up the street. Helium. Deflating.
He was most upset with me that I was unable to perform some sort of miracle that saw the balloon fully inflated and bobbing around merrily in the air, pulling taut the festive ribbon it was attached to.
Yep. Apparenlty, I suck.
The Festive Season (or Our Tree Has No Balls)
Posted by: | CommentsAhhh (that was a contended sigh. No, really it was ….).
The Festive Season is upon us, which strongly implies it will be, you know, festive.
I’m apparently not up on the latest definition of this word, but I do my best.
Godzilla had a bye with basketball this morning, but was off on a birthday party instead. This meant one less bout of running around for me. Still, I got to do the gymnastics craziness. Also, some bread and milk were in order. And the house needed tidying for yet another open for inspection. Best I stay away as long as possible, really.
We sorted the house and figured it might be a good time to secure ourselves a tree. If nothing else, this sorted activities for the afternoon and we would have some moments free of “Can we play the Wii?”
Given we had to be out of the house anyway, we wandered up and ordered out tree from the local green grocer. A slightly smaller tree this year than previous years. But a tree, no less.
We also took the opportunity to “do” the Santa photos. It is something that started off being all sentimental and good motherish, and has now turned into a “because I can” moment … because I can.
Godzilla still being at the party, we made the most of introducing Chippie to Santa, which he took to my climbing up my body and burying himself in my neck. He did make a terribly good attempt at crawling up my left nostril, and, had I let him, he may very well have succeeded. Monkey Boy embarked on a long list of Lego Star Wars requests and quite possibly enlightened Santa in the sets available. Shortly thereafter, Godzilla was returned to us and the Santa Photos were had.
These, as always, involve Monkey Boy performing beautifully, because he’s worked me it out, Godzilla kinda of getting it, but also getting bored and looking in every direction but at the camera with a nice smile on his face, and Chippie attempting to climb off whilst screaming and me saying “just take the photos anyway”.
This job ticked off the list, we head home and find out tree waiting for us, freshly delivered from around the corner. It was erected and that is how we ended up with sugar all over the floor … don’t ask.
I put on some Metallica very loudly, to relieve some stress, whilst all the boys head off to storage to collect the Christmas Decorations.
(Yes, the storage where we had everything ready to go for when our house sold a month ago. But didn’t.)
Two boxes made it back, one of which said “Santa Sacks” and was probably the one I really didn’t want, and the other labelled “Christmas Decorations” and definitely the one I wanted.
Thus we commenced the Family Tradition of Decorating the Christmas Tree. This year it involved me, atop the ladder with Christmas lights wrapped around my body, attempting to prevent Chippie from putting “twinsel” on the tree before the lights.
There is a procedure you know!
I also had to stop Godzilla from turning the lights on whilst they were wrapped around this body and not that of the tree, and Monkey Boy from driving me fucking nuts!
We added twinsel and various decorations whilst Grumpy Pants was up another ladder, attaching lights to the front of the house. And swearing a lot. Possibly more than me. Which is impressive, if you think about it.
Upon dropping a ball and it shattering over the floor and installing a part of it in my foot, again, I look up and realise out tree has no balls.
The carton with the Christmas balls in it is still in storage.
I don’t mind. One shattered ball in the foot is more than enough and I pretend it does not matter. Particularly as I’m kneeling on shattered ball and attempting to sweep it up from incomprehensible places.
Grumpy’s grumbles have increased, possibly due to the rain that has come along to assist him in his light-putting-up duties. It is, despite electrical cords and nail guns (which, by the way, has decided to stop working, despite its only being used once a year), safer than having the kids around “helping” and I leave him to it.
Let’s face it, I can stand around and be sworn at any time, I don’t need to put up with it whilst we’re being all festive.
Grumpy vanishes shortly afterwards. I know this because Godzilla has come in complaining he is not allowed to assist. And it’s not fair. Etc.
We do a walk around of the house. No Grumpy. We call his name. No Grumpy. I double check to see he hasn’t electrocuted himself and is not hanging from the beams around the front veranda.
No Grumpy.
He returns some half an hour later, the neighbours staple gun in hand, and swears on his first kathunk.
He has managed to cause the neighbour’s staple gun to stop working.
He is talented.
Finally, our ball-less tree and lights are completed, a teensy lightbulb smooshed into the tessellated tiles just outside the front door.
I wander across the road with my children to take in the spectacular display that is our house; a string of red lights strung across the front of the house, with multicoloured lights that run through a series of flashes, twinkles and fading in and outs hang from the beams across the front. The lights on the left are 5 seconds behind the cascade of lights on the right, and when they transition, it’s all out of sync.
That takes real talent.
A family wander past us, and I beam at them, so proud am I of our efforts.
I am berated by a small child in a stroller, pushed, suddenly faster, by his father, as his mother grabs the hand of his older sister.
“They don’t have shoes on!” he tells his mum.
No, they don’t.
Also, I am wearing my pyjama pants, a nice top and am holding a glass of wine.
Welcome to the neighbourhood. And Merry Christmas!
Fuck you make me laugh (via Twitter @woogsworld)
Mad Cow writes a very funny blog that all parents can relate to. I know that whenever I drop in to catch up I will end up in stitches (of laughter!) and head off to my day with a smile on my face. Thankfully, here is someone who tells it like it is. 