Archive for swimming lessons
Necessary Life Skills
Posted by: | CommentsDay 3 of Not Being Able To Work In Effective Chunks and Week I’ve Lost Count of feeling crap. My head is now full of snot, the cough, whilst relenting slightly and not playing quite so much havoc on my chest and pelvic floor, is still there and my Levels Of Tolerance have all but vanished in a screaming tantrum.
I’m doing my best to hold it together, but fail miserably as Chippie, whom only 13 minutes earlier had insisted – insisted – he put clothes on instead of his bathers, as he usually does Thursday mornings before swimming, decided he could not possibly leave the house in clothes, and insisted, via screaming at me, that he wanted his bathers on.
However, he could not appreciate the need to remove his shoes in order to remove his pants in order to don his bather bottoms and insisites, via more yelling, that his shoes remain on.
As the experts suggest, I got down to his level. And I screamed at him, just like he was doing to me. Clearly, by being all calm and rational I just wasn’t speaking in a manner with which he could relate. I threw in the odd “fucking little shit” and “stop fucking around and make a decision” and he calmly replaced the shoe I had so horribly removed and went out to the car.
I pondered why I even bother with “calm and rational” at any time, and don’t just got for Screaming Swearing Fishwife first up, as it seems to get things happening.
Then I cried at swimming lessons.
In order to do something useful, I rang a local high school to find out some information, and was advised the information and forms I needed were to be completed and returned to the school tomorrow.
Ah, well, I thought, this will kill some time – phew! And we drove up, collected the forms, and I killed even more time by heading to Kmart to purchase some long pants for Chippie that would actually reach his ankles and, therefore, technically be considered long.
I was feeling much better, having achieved something I probably needed to do weeks ago, but with Melbourne weather being so fickle and inconsistent, it was hard to decide whether a few weeks ago was actually a good time for it. Still, it is now done and I can check that off my list.
My Feeling Much Better was shortlived, as the older two arrived home and proceeded to chip away at my resolve by niggling and picking on each other, until my Already Barely Existent Tolerance shattered and I told them if they didn’t frigigng stop I would either walk out the door and never come back, or, if they even contemplated touching each other again, I would bang their heads together so fucking hard they’d be rendered unconscious and if tha’ts what it took to get a moment of peace then I would fucking do it.
Then I asked them nicely to get ready for swimming.
And took several deep breaths.
They were now remotely tolerable and swimming lessons could ensue. Chippie went in for a play during lesson time and all was well. I had the added bonus of a friend there to talk to. So that was nice.
As the lessons finished and all the boys got dressed as quickly and efficiently as possible (Godzilla with the entire back of his shirt soaking wet, Monkey Boy without shoes etc) we were standing out the front, two families, five boys in total, as we mums discussed some catch up dates.
Chippie was running around with his similarly aged compartriot discussing bums and penises.
“Pull your pants down,” Godzilla tells Chippie.
“Leave your pants on!” I intervene. “And stop telling your brother to do shit like that. Seriously!?”
“That’s a necessary life skill,” says Monkey Boy.
“Isn’t it?” he asks, when we look at him, incredulous. “Knowing how to pull your pants down is necessary to get you through life.”
And, although by this point I really didn’t want to, I took them home … with a smile.
The mum with the horrible kids
Posted by: | CommentsUrgh.
It appears I am That Mum.
Or, rather, as I prefer to think of it, I have Those Kids.
It started in the pool with Chippie – and my freshly waxed legs, but that fact has little to no impact on this story, just I finally feel acceptable. Except hat Aunt Of A Kid has turned up to watch, freshly returned from Bali or Phuket, complete with svelt, tanned body, new bikini she looks stunning in, sun streaked blonde hair, and replica snotty brand sunglasses. I suddenly feel inadequate and pretend to be a crocodile and all good motherish, with my toddler climbing all over me and giggling and laughing.
It was a ruse. I was just trying to hide my legs.
Anyhoo, Chippie found a toy on the side of the pool, which I had thought belonged to the pool. Turns out it belonged to Another Child, whom expresses, calmly, his dislike of Chippie holding it. As toddlers are want to do. And as I wish they bloody wouldn’t.
Chippie took offense to these mild, albeit whiney, protests and smacked Another Child in the mouth with his own toy.
As toddlers are wont to do. And I wish the wouldn’t.
He then took great offense to my expressing my innaceptance of such behaviour by saying “NO” – loudly, out of shock and to ensure that every parent in the suburb knew, without a doubt, that I am not the sort of parent who is oblivious, accepting or non-chalante about such smacking in mouths and, therefore, could not be judged unfavourably.
Then I made him say “sorry”. Which resulted in him crying for the remaining 27 minutes of the 30 minute lesson.
I almost joined him.
Arrive home, get organised for a meeting, Chippie in tow, which I am called out of by Monkey Boy’s teacher who expressed her annoyance at his behaviour.
*sigh*
Yup. I’m the mum of the kid that hits, and the one who is annoying in class.
I have no more excuses for his behaviour; no “someone else is a bad influence” or “there’s a lot of stress at home” (which there is, but its not the issue) or “he’s bored” (which he is, but I’m over the “suck it up” conversations) and I resort to requesting that the work he not only didn’t finish, but also partially destroyed in a “fuck you” to the teacher, totally missing the point that it actually doesn’t make a difference to her at all, and it makes him look like a spoilt, arsehead, little brat, comes home with him and he completes it here.
I pick them up from school, Chippie advising me that he wanted to say sorry to his swimming class friend, then replying with “no, I punch” when I reminded him that smacking is not ok.
Have a few words with Monkey Boy’s teacher, and a few more to Monkey Boy on the way home.
I can’t help but feel Godzilla, the middlest child, is being somewhat overlooked, until I notice a scaly, flaky patch behind his ear. And on his cheek. And head. And several on his body.
It looks like psoariasis.
Awesome. He appears to be channeling my stress and its manifesting in scaly red patches on his body.
That should ensure he stands no chance of ostracism of any kind.
*sigh*
This will help the headache. Or perhaps help you sleep
Posted by: | CommentsMore chaos for the day – unsure I’d now be able to cope with ‘normal’ or ‘routine’ any more – complete with swimming lessons after school. Again.
Ensure swimwear for Chippie and I washed, dried and stuffed into the swim bag, along with the required number of towels and board shorts for the older two as I run out the door, stuff Chippie into his car seat, fighting to plug him in with his arms loaded with Arna the E’phant, 17 trains from Thomas the Boring Arse Tank Engine and Friends and screaming for his dummy.
I then get 13 minutes to sit and seeth whilst I await some dumbarse builder from over the back to move his bloody van as, apparently, a garage door isn’t obvious enough an object to suggest an unsuitable area to leave a car parked.
Arrive in time, have the “look, just wear those bathers for gods sake, yours are probably behind the washing machine” conversation, again, get them into swim lessons on time, ponder the fact that ever second person in the pool addresses Chippie by name and I have no clue who they are, drag him out kicking and screaming after he decided he wanted something Monkey Boy had and I wouldn’t let him snatch. Also, a family change room was free and there didn’t appear to be anyone waiting for it.
It. Was. MINE! And no kicking, screaming toddler, oblivious seven year old or obstinate ten year old was going to stop me from getting it.
Arrive home, Godzilla advising me his special lunch day (the equivalent of a school lunch order, but only once a term – our school has no tuckshop (am hoping, therefore, that I will miss the whole “tuckshop arms” thing)) note is required tomorrow at the latest, complete with tears because I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Advise a bag search. Preferably a more comprehensive one than the partial opening of one of several compartments of said bag whislt focussing entirely on the TV look. No note.
Unless, of course, you count the envelope containing a cheque and persmission slip that was required back at school four weeks ago, and was sent off with him prior to that date.
GAH!
And I say so. Also is another note I responded to and sent back with him last Friday, and the special lunch note is still AWOL. The missing invite from last November has finally appeared, however.
Tears. From him re the catastrophic realisation that he may never have a special lunch again in his life. Ever. Me as I go and bang my head against the bedroom wall, as it seems less painful and annoying than having to figure out a system for note transfer that will increase the chances of all notes arriving at the appropriate destination in a suitable and acceptable time frame, including any delivery of reaquired funds with the corresponding note.
Also, I have to ensure Monkey Boy’s swim gear is washed and dried before 8.25 tomorrow morning. Oh, looky, and now its raining.
Pour wine, cook dinner, hoist Chippie up under my arm to remove him from kitchen and smash left knee on the very pointy corner of the coffee table.
OUCH!
Eventually get to sit for a moment. Just long enough to feel the stabby-in-right-eye headache that usually converts to a migraine if left long enough creeping into my right eye.
Also, long enough for Chippie to smash me in the face with a biscuit tin. Right across the bridge of my nose.
Then offer me an evil laugh. Cute. But evil.
I stagger to the bathroom to examine the damage, pain spreading across my face and doing everything I can not to laugh hysterically. Because that’s just what I do.
Am most disappointed to find that there is not a bruise visibly spreading across my face in the same path as the pain I’ve just encountered, and instead discover a teensy cut.
I’d like to say there was blood running down my nose and dripping off the end. Or trickling. Or even oozing. It was nearly oozing. so I deserve some sympathy, right?
Instead, I crouch down in front of Chippie, point to the insubstantial knick hidden behind my glasses and say “No throwing. See what you did to Mummy?”
“Nose,” he says.
“Ey’s. Mouf. Cheeky cheek. Head,” he informs me pointing to the respective bits.
“Hehehehehe,” he concludes. And runs off.
*sigh*
Search cupboard for painkillers to find we are seriously devoid of anything suitable. Contemplate the only remaining option; a Wiggles bandaid, before deciding it is less likely to get my sympathy and more likely to induce hysterical laughter in the family I’m surrounded by.
Have I said *sigh* yet?
It’s win-win really. Or lose-lose if you’re the kid in question
Posted by: | CommentsAfter a somewhat throbby headachey and bad newsy, stressful day, I managed to wrangle myself a massage.
I even managed to come home to an empty house, put the dinner on and have a shower – uninterrupted! Well, except for the blue rubber ball, with the – courtesy of Gozilla – smiley face drawn on it, staring up at me from the bottom of the shower – courtesy of Chippie – where it has been resting for several days now. I was mixed; on the one hand it was a little unnerving, having a blue ball staring up my whatsit, but on the other hand, somewhat comforting. I’m unused to showering on my own. So it just helped to ease the weirdness.
Showered and pyjamaed, the troops arrive home. Godzilla bursts in, claiming starvation then informing me he didn’t do his swimming lesson because he “was sick”.
Hrm. Spritely, yet “too sick to do swimming lessons”, hey? I can fix this.
“Oh dear. Well, we’re having burittos but as you are “too sick” I don’t think its a good idea that you eat them.”
And more of the story emerges. He was fine at school, then sick at swimming, and now ok again. The bit of the story that didn’t emerge was the bit that goes “I, for some reason that I refuse to explain to you, didn’t want to/couldn’t do my swimming lessons, but I’m actually not sick. I’m just having you on.” etc etc blah blah
(I don’t know about you, but I abhor this behaviour in anyone)
He did try the tears, but when I’m seriously pissed off, that doesn’t work either. See, I can also do the “well, actually, you tricked me/lied/am trying to put one over me, so, therefore, you can miss out on dinner, cos I don’t like that behaviour”
So, it’s win-win, really. You’re sick, you can’t eat what we’re having, cos I don’t want you throwing up on the middle of the night. You misbehave, you miss out. Oh, but you can make yourself some Vegemite on toast; don’t want anything too rich that might make you spew. But you’re not going to get away with unacceptable behaviour.
See, win-win.
Oh, except, of course, if you’re the one who was sick, then not, especially when you saw your favourite dinner. Then, it kinda sucks. Really sucks.
Meh.
Still, given the way things have panned out this evening, I wouldn’t put it past the Grand Master Of All Things to have me up all night tonight (again, did that last night with the Chipster) with a vomitting Godzilla. Just to pay me back.
Although, I am hoping that my having pre-empted such a Being with this thought that it’ll now no longer happen.
Right?
Do not feed the tantrumming toddler
Posted by: | Comments*sigh*
I got swimming lessons today.
They went ok. Actually, the lesson itself went remarkably well.
Minor tanty in the morning as we farewelled big brothers and stayed home ourselves (because we had swimming lessons) but all was good by the time we left.
He even recognised the centre we go to, which was lovely because we haven’t been since the end of term last year, which was approximately one hundred years ago. He cooperated when changing into his bathers, entered the pool without an issue and mostly participated in the lesson. He did all the things; kicking, blowing bubbles, going underwater etc really well. Of course, not all when he was asked to do them, but he did them at one point or other.
Then out and I used the wrong towel, or I didn’t put my towel around me properly, or it was a Wednesday, or some extremely inexplicable thing happened that I was unable to decipher therefore was unable to “fix”. Should it have been fixable, of course. Or should I have wanted to fix it. Damned if I was going to strip off in full view of everyone because he didn’t want me to put my towel around me over my wet bathers. Or something.
Into the change rooms where he yelled something about “go backin da pool” after he’d pretty much told me he wanted “outta da pool” in much the same tone only minutes earlier. Stupidly, another (first time) mum chose this moment to speak with him.
Now, I know that this works remarkably well for some toddlers mid-tantrum. They stop crying, or are distrcted or get shy or something. Not this toddler. Oh, no. He screamed louder, lay down on the bench and promptly fell off, causing the pitch and volume of his already well established screaming to increase dramatically. As did his behaviour, when I picked him up, checked him over, cuddled him, sat him back down and he very deliberately “fell” off the bench again. All well controlled and with the added Roll Around The Floor Screaming bit.
Then … then … another mum sends her two year old around. With FOOD! To placate him. The fact I was now surrounded by grapes and strawberries that were moments earlier neatly segregated into seperate compartments in a toddler approved Tupperware container obviously escaped her attention.
“Um, I’m not sure he wants anything to eat,” I politely inform her. “But fuck you very much, your paying him attention has done wonders for calming him, as you will note by his now running off and throwing himself on the floor.”
Actually, I did really say “thank you”. I just thought the second bit. Just my chest and head cold had already well established a headache which was increasing in intensity exponentially and in conjunction with the level of tantrum going on around me. I know she meant well. Just, I’m pissed off and he’s mid tantrum and I have to take it out on someone.
We left. It took a while. He kept running back to the change room. He eventually follwed me. He tried banging his head on the automatic sliding doors, but was thwarted by the doors opening at the crucial moment. Damn those doors and their not cooperating with his tantrum. How is he supposed to get attention if he can’t bang his head on something?
Not that he gets much attention from me when doing that, so I’m baffled as to why he even bothers.
In the car he screams for Daddy. Daddy nearly gets a text saying “you can take your fucking swimming lessons and shove them up your fucking arse”, or “he want’s you, come now or I drop him off” – see aforementioned post about being pissed off, ignorant toddler and need to take it out on someone.
The small, remaining rational part of my brain did tell me that receiving a text like that would only confuse him and he probably wouldn’t respond.
We made it home. He is in bed. Alive.
Also, I’m mightily impressed that I didn’t have a tantrum myself, yell at anyone or tell anyone to fuck off.
Even the mum who attempted to placate my tantrumming toddler with food.
What is with that?
It happens a lot around my area. Only the week before last. Chippie had a screaming tanty at the front gate (Grumpy was taking the bins out – we can’t actually work out Chippie’s problem with that, but he didn’t like it) and the little old Greek lady across the road brought him a Kit Kat.
And not a vodka and tonic for me.
A little old Italian lady chased me up the street, whilst dragging a screaming, tantrumming toddler, and offered him a nectarine. Sadly, not chocolate on that occasion, cos I could have done with some.
I don’t know about them, but personally, there’s no way I’m rewarding them for carrying on like a spoilt little twat.
Also, if there’s gonna be any emotional eating done, then it’s gonna be done by me!
(On the upside, there was no inadvertent boob, bum or vagina exhibitionism by me at the pool today. Am impressed)
Nothing like a good “knock knock” joke to make you smile
Posted by: | CommentsThe joke goes like this:
Knock Knock
Who’s There?
The Interrupting Cow
The interrupting co
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
(In case you missed it, the teller of the joke says “MOOOO!” very loudly, when the recipient of said joke is asking the “who” bit … thus interrupting them. Thus the hilarity of said joke. Get it?)
It’s the Knock Knock I revert to when I have had enough of their stupid jokes, mostly the Knock Knock ones, and them proceed to interrupt all their jokes by yelling “MOOOOOOOO” very loudly when they start a new joke until the eventually give up and go and do something else. Preferably something less annoying.
They, of course, have reinvented the joke and use sheep and … well, not much else really. They appear to have severely limited imaginations, although do find these jokes hilariously funny.
Who’d've thunk it?
Parrot Boy, also known as Chippie, who has reached that age of parroting everything and anything anyone says, including “fuck”, has created his own joke:
Kno’ kno’
Cow
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!
He doesn’t allow for you to reply of course. He also does a very good sheep. And an elephant.
And, as I discovered on the way to swimming lessons this morning, as I drew the short straw again, mummies.
Kno’ kno’
Mummy
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
And repeat all the way to school dropoff, where I had Godzilla in his ‘elf’ outfit and still no idea if he was supposed to be in it, given they were catching the train into the city, and if he was also to have a change of clothes. Or anything really. Also had a small bout of feeling like Worst Mother in World for half-arsed knock up of elf out fit that was orange. Orange! I ask you …
(Felt slightly better a little later on after discovering that Godzilla was asked to put his outfit on yesterday and the teacher took the class through it to describe what they needed to wear. Why did Godzilla have his outfit at school yesterday, you ask? Ah. Let me take you back a week or so, where, although being content with half-arsed approach to orange elf costume, the anal “must get everything right” part of me couldn’t help but send it in to school with Godzilla and a note saying “is this ok?” I can’t help it.)
Arrive at swimming after coming across another elf, who was in perfect elf-like costume, muttered something under breath about “capable mothers” and “stupid sewing”, convinced myself the outfits were bought, came across several other elves who were at the same level as my son and felt better, confirmed I had got everything “right” this morning regarding delivery of child to school, and spent twenty minutes wandering around schoolyard in search of Chippie who had been taken by his oldest brother to watch the diggers rip up the school hall that was supposed to have been done 12 months ago.
Wrestle tantrumming toddler, screaming “tractor tractor” into the car, and discover that, despite usually having 7 towels in the swimming bag, we now only have two. One with a hood, for Chippie, and the other one one of those poncho things with a hood, designed for children up to the age of approximatley one year old.
Great.
Chippie overly happy and excited until we actually get into his lesson, where he has a big cry, then a full on tantrum beside the pool. He comes good towards the end of the lesson, we get out and I embark on attempting to dry myself with poncho-towel the size of a small hand towel. Wrapping towel around upper body results in a boob poking through the hood bit and a serious assault on my self esteem as I realise “wrapping towel around upper body” is quite false, and I really mean “holding towel over front of body, resulting in one boob poking out the hood hole”. I can, just, get it around my middle, resulting in a bum cheek wearing a hood. Eventually resort to putting clothes on whislt still quite significantly damp. I’ll dry eventually.
With Chippie no longer attending childcare on Wednesdays, I satisfy myself that he will have a decent sleep after swimming and a snack. He does, but only after an hour and a half of fighting sleep, and a half hour before school pickup. Wake him to head to school. Resulting in neither of us being happy.
Head back to school two hours later, as Monkey Boy was to present his Andy Griffiths project, as Andy Griffiths (and didn’t he do a remarkable job? Although I suspect he was doing a far better impression of the “Andy” as featured in the books by Andy Griffiths, than of Andy Griffiths himself. Or perhaps, both.)
Out for dinner with the Favourite Uncle where we farewelled him, as he is off to Sweden for a year, and we probably won’t see him in that time.
What am I going to do for a babysitter, now?
Kno’ kno’
Mummy
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
How I lost 13kg in 45 minutes
Posted by: | CommentsThe Grumpy One so courtesly informed me on Sunday, during the relative influx and barbeque sausage feast that he was working additional shifts this week.
I sat down with my Mind (my trusty Nokia E71 and A5 sized organiser – Mad Cow’s version coming soon!) and, in between telling kids to stop stuffing their faces with chips, making 17 different sorts of coffee and feeling unapologetic regarding lack of soy milk or similar, I enter in the extra shifts he’s working.
It’s not until yesterday morning that I come to the rather harsh realisation that it is now up to me to not only attend toddler swimming lessons, but actually get in the pool with him. My leg was had been planned for Thursday, but missable if unable to fit it in.
I was now forced to undertake several, extremely hard decisions. My first was to choose between doing something about said leg wax, or hopping in pool (again) with a bikini line that reached just below my knees and underarm hair that, in a pinch, could be utilised as a combover.
Or, work out how the fuck I was going to do this. Work Buddy coming tomorrow, so went with “Um, can you just not do work, and sit at home with Chippie whilst I’m deforrested? I’ll try to get him to sleep before I go.”
Then faced the daunting task of ringing the beauty salon to see if they could fit me in on short notice.
Phew. They could. Thus this morning involve the precarious task of ensuring Chippie was suitable fed and happy and in bed before I head off for appointment. Not an easy feat, but I somehow managed it.
Off I go, and was suitably surprised that she was able to use hot wax and not kick the session off with a whipper snipper. And we were done in 45 minutes. I left the salon, feeling so much lighter than when I went in. Even my jeans fit me better.
Arrive home to find Chippie still asleep, and remaining there for a further hour and a bit, before we were required to attend a meeting and viewing of a venue for Mums’ Night Out! next year. Chippie, still subdued, possibly due to good sleep, more likely due to strange people around him did and clung to me, rubbing my boobs and distracting whomever it is I’m talking to.
He finds the best method do to this is to grab my right nipple and pinch it really hard. It HURTS!
On the upside, I think we found a venue.
And I’m 13 kilo lighter than I was this morning. I believe I am now socially acceptable to be seen in the swimming pool.
And that, Mummy, is a fact …
Posted by: | CommentsDesperate for a bit of time away from the computer this afternoon, I decide to join in with the swimming lesson debacle that is Thursday nights.
Chippie now not going to daycare on Thursdays leaves us with numerous options, my favourite being Grumpy Pants takes him to swimming lessons with the older two and leaves me home to work. In peace.
But I go. I prepare myself adequately, taking my To Do Diary, my note book and my Pooh Bear pencil case with my selection of pretty coloured pens, and sit beside the pool and do a bit of offline work. Saves me thinking up various ways I can opt out of the world for that half hour. Make it fifty minutes, so they can deal with the post-swimming shower and get dressed without me. I hate that bit most.
Inexplicably – yet inevitably – the drive home discussion turns to our house burining down. Again.
Godzilla, out of the blue, as is his wont, suggests that when we get home we get a ladder and push the buttons on the smoke detectors. Because we were talking about Monkey Boy and his recently acquired aversion to eating carrots at school.
Monkey Boy then asks if we can pleeeeeaaaaaase get some of those sprinkler things that go on your roof for in case your house catches fire.
I affect sarcastic tone most appropriate for the discussion at hand and reply “Yeah, you and a sprinkler system. That’d be great for everyone!”
“What do you mean?” he replies. All innocent like.
I turned and looked at him in a look that pretty much repeated what I’d just said out loud.
“What?” he asks again. “I can do way naughtier things than that.”
And that, my dears, was a fact!
(And then he handed me, at 6.57pm, the note and additional paraphernalia relating to me being required to bake a cake for a school cake stall fundraiser, to be delivered before school tomorrow morning.)
Daddy does it better
Posted by: | CommentsGrumpy took an extra shift at work this week. which meant, this morning I got to do the swimming lessons with the toddler.
I was, this time, given “plenty of notice”, however this term is all relative and objective. You see, although I had five days notice of the impending bathers-wearing occasion, I had but no time in which to even ring to organise a good old leg waxing, let alone attend one.
Did contemplate a German accent to get me by. Instead did a quick underarm wax home job in between Vegemite sandwiches, locating the toddlers other shoe (the one he will acutually wear) and removing wax from the bathroom mirror.
Don’t ask.
Squished self into bathers before heading out the door, remembering to pack knickers and bra for myself, but not a spare nappy for the toddler. Manage to leave home, quite unintended and much to my dismay, earlier than planned and end up in the pool 15 minutes before the start of the lessson. Which meant an extra 15 minutes in the pool, total.
Chippie, the youngest in the group by a few good months, is by far the best and has come such a long way.
I felt a pang of … something, that thing all mothers feel, about not having been there each week to see all of his progress and I’m “missing out” and blah blah.
(Course, I’m also aware of the whole “but it’s so great for dads to be more involved” argument, too).
Am quickly relieved of that particular emotion, when Chippie wanders out of the pool, before his lesson has actually finished, into the change rooms, where it is freezing cold, proceeds to make attempts to remove his wet bathers, which he has no hope of doing because a) they are wet and stuck to him and b) he is still at that age where he pulls his pants up to take them off. Like I said, “no hope”.
It is around this point that I appear to do something wrong. I take his bathers off for him, as this seems to be what the routine is; I’m just following his lead. He then screams at me, throws himself on the cold, concrete floor, throws his wet bathers at me, then tries to put them on then throws them at me again.
I still have no idea what he actually wants me to do, or what I’m meant to be doing. Obviously, the routine he and the Grumpy One embark upon is totally different to my total lack of anything.
I manage to get his slippery, writhing, kicking and screaming body clothed, and attempt to do same with mine, whilst chatting to lovely old lady who is quite obviously socially deprived, and stop my towel from sliding off due to me a) being modest (and unwaxed) and b) so my tits don’t actually freeze off from the chill in the room. Chippie is still not happy, and seems even less so at my endeavouring to get dressed. Attempt to pull kncikers up over damp thights with towel around bum whilst he is reaching up under towel in what can only be described as a gynaecological action to remove knickers.
I sitll have no idea why.
Finally, I’m dressed, everything is packed up and stuffed in swimming bag, I hoist him up as really don’t want him lying on the cold, wet floor again, wander out to reception, put him down and discover he is now extremely happy, quite possibly because he has exposed a majority of my right breast (thankfully bra clad) to the 17 year old behind the counter who needs to retrieve my car keys and look at me to accept the locker key I’m holding out to him.
Drop Chippie off at day care, feeling extraordinarily tired, return home and realise I haven’t yet eaten breakfast and it is now past official morning tea time. Need to eat. Starving. So whip up some toasted sandwiches and vacuum them via my oesophagus.
No longer hungry by lunch time, so am left to comtemplate whether the food I ate at 10.30 am could count, technically, as “lunch” and, therefore, if cake is acceptable to eat at what is technically considered “lunch time”?
Yes, yes I think I will …
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.