Creating Monsters

I realise there are many things that are genetic and that both my husband and I have passed down to our children.

The curly hair.

The big eyes.

The complete, smartarse behaviour.

(Although some of that is also very likely to be as much environment and ‘nurture’ as it is nature; how much, who knows ….?)

I feared for the longevity of my sanity this morning.

Not just because I wandered downstairs and discovered an immense Lego train set up in the family room. When I say “in the family room”, I mean an elaborate setup was underway, taking up all available floor space and creating a walking hazard.

When I say “in the family room” I also mean the track layout had snaked its way out the door and was covering a considerable portion of the kitchen floor, and impeding upon the entry/exit points of doors. I.e. entire doorways were blocked.

This is fairly standard in this house.

As is the repeated “Can you please not build your tracks here?” And “The tracks are not to go beyond this doorway!”

Repeat 800 million times.

Today, however, we allegedly have the man coming to install the blinds in this room. Again.

I make this point extremely clear, and make vague reference to the need to ensure he has safe entry – safe for the Lego. No point in worry about the safety of the installation man. Lego is far more important.

Vague references turned into outright demands and explicit instructions and, finally, the mumbling from the fourteen year old.

“Pardon?” I say. “Also, stop mumbling.”

“How will he be able to see?” he asks me.

“Well,” I say, seriously, “when you pick up all the Lego, he’ll be able to see, won’t he?”

“No. How will he see? If he’s the blind man, how will he see?”

I sigh, and realise there is no hope for my children.

I tell him he won’t be allowed to spend time with his dad if he’s only going to repeat stupid jokes.

I walk out and take on my morning, doing 47 things at once and wondering if I can do a load of washing, or if it will rain.

Godzilla staggers into the kitchen, almost, but not quite, awake.

“What’s your washing basket look like?” I ask, because this is my pointed way of asking him if his washing basket is, yet again, overflowing and if he is running out of clean clothes to wear.

Usually, I receive one of three responses:

  1. “It’s fine, I washed the stuff yesterday.”
  2. “Why do I have to do everything around here?” or
  3. “Urgh!”

Today, however, clearly the smartarse was in the air.

“It looks like a washing basket,” he explains to me, as though I am an idiot.

I sigh.

Because what else can I do?

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