First day back at school today. And it wasn’t without the stock standard “I feel sick” from Godzilla as we’re participating in the morning’s Get Ready For School fun activities.
“Just hurry up and get dressed,” was my reply. It is my usual reply. and usually comes accompanied by a FFS-eye roll and a quick glance to make sure he really is ok.
After one more attempt and the response being “Have you unstacked the dishwasher” he gave up. He knows I don’t buy into bullshit. Also, he was well and truly able to annoy both his brothers, older and younger, and to adequately piss me off enough to inform him he was pissing me off and to “hurry up!”
The older two boys rode to school and Chippie was delivered to childcare, where he cried as we crossed the carpark, and ran off, ignoring us, to play outside with his friend who arrived at the same time.
What occurs next is entirely my own fault. You see, Grumpy Pants and I went for a walk to get some milk, as ours had run out before I had my coffee this morning. That, in itself, may very well have accounted for my low bullshit tolerance levels and general grumpiness. On our way home, we stopped and had a quiet coffee, and some really lovely time together.
“It’s nice not to have to wash any bedding today,” I say.
And I go about my day as he goes off to work, and it’s suddenly time to collect the children. I walk up, feeling a sense of achievement after having completed much of my To Do List and two of the 38 loads of washing still to be done.
Monkey Boy rides on ahead, and Godzilla happily chats to me about his day (“What did you do at school today?” “I can’t remember.” “Oh, right ….”) and races off after his brother.
Oh, happy days.
I arrive home many minutes later, as my legs are not bicycle wheels, and they are happily devouring any food-like substances in the Tupperware laden cupboards.
“Unstack the dishwasher,” I say to Godzilla. “We have basketball tonight.”
And I go and do something mildly less mindnumbing than arguing with an eight-year-old about household jobs.
I check the time, see I have ten minutes before we need to leave, and see Godzilla lying on the couch, under a blanket.
“Dishwasher,” I say, because it is all I need to say.
“I have a headache,” he whines at me.
And so on and so forth with the “I’m sick” and wishing he’d use his imagination and come up with