Bad Mummy? I don't think so!

With the house relatively tidy, the table situation began to bother me.

Not just the fac that it is large, we use one end, and, subsequently, the other end gets dumped with stuff; letters to be looked at later, school and kinder artwork, pens, my good scissors, 17 rolls of sticky tape … that sort of thing.

Being wood, we like to keep it covered. Usually with a table cloth, and therein lies the problem.

Dumpage of ‘stuff’ means re-dumping of it elsewhere while the table cloth is removed for washing. Smallish children mean that the table cloth needs washing something like seven times a day. Usually, it sits for a few days before it begins to attempt to remove itself from the table and make its way to the laundry.

Except it can’t move, because everyone dumps there stuff on it.

I’d had enough. I wanted a clear cover that could easily be wiped down, showed the fabulousness of the table iteself, and protected it at the same time.

So, off we head to spotlight, where Grumpy and I check out our plasticy type options and the kids decide a wrestle between the curtains and matress protectors is fun.

We find the right cover, already on a roll. The roll itself was over a metre and a half long (perfect for the width) so we pick it up and have a look around.

Bored, Godzilla makes a run for the checkout. I call to him to walk, but he continues in his haste, almost bowling over a little old lady.

“I now have a smackin’ stick and I’m prepared to use it!” I inform him.

And receive a glare from the nearly bowled over little old lady for my trouble.

Purchase made and we head to the shopping centre for ground coffee and a few other bits and pieces, and the kids keep going. We determine the best thing to do is for them to walk home with me, while Grumpy drives.

I surreptitiously have the kids follow me, while Grumpy heads in the other direction. I think we’ve done it. Tricked them into walking home so I don’t have to deal with the “but I want to go in the car” right from the get go. That’ll happen when we’re halfway home and they realise they’ve been duped.

All going well.

Until Grumpy drives past, tooting and waving, setting the kids into a frenzy of “Don’t leave us!” screaming, chasing the car and yelling “Wait for us!” and causing passers-by to look cautiously at me and wonder who this crazy lady is, and why children are running away from her yelling “Don’t leave us, you idiot!”

Once they realise they’re stuck with me, the banter between the two of them continues; chasing, pushing, teasing and the not listening to my “stop”, “be careful of others”, “watch what you’re doing” and “if you get hurt, don’t complain to me.”

Obviously, they just need to learn the hard way.

Which they did – so don’t frown at me, lady!

Monkey Boy continues poking and proding and annoying his just younger brother. He was asked to stop. I could see it coming.

Godzilla got fed up and turned on him.

Sure, I could have said something, but hadn’t I said it all several times already? And only over the last few minutes?

Monkey Boy backs away, Godzilla matching his retreat, and falls over the wheel of an oncoming pram. Banged his elbow on the ground. Just missed his head.

The lady he collided with aplogised profusely to me. I looked at her like she was insane – its not her fault kids need to learn from their mistakes.

She checks he is ok. I ask him if he know had any inkling of why I had been suggesting – well, recommending – he stop mucking around. She glares at me and tells me he’s hurt.

I smile politely. I suggest to him that I am, despite all appearances, not the evil, spoiler of fun he thinks I am, but a very concerned mummy, who doesn’t want to see him hurt.

“Well, why didn’t you tell me the lady was coming?” he enquires.

Hadn’t I been doing that for the last half an hour?

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