It possibly started because I still get cross about the five-year-old rolling around the floor naked, rather than getting dressed.
Well, naked except for a dragon tail.
The fridge is still protruding into the kitchen and the Other Fridge, decades old and undersized for our needs, is freezing everything.
Also, if I may digress a moment, how is it a decades old fridge is still chugging along, yet the one less than a decade old has given up? Hmmmm?
Also, it has severely limited the food options available for school lunches. Thankfully, I am a master at Limited Food Options For School Lunches, but could really do without being forced to use my mind to any great capacity at this time.
The Littlest One’s white shirts are still on the line, albeit dry, and he is having a heels-in, flat out refusal to wear his purple school shirt.
“Purple is a girl’s colour,” he informs me and I sigh, not really wanting to get into some sort of gender debate and discussions about social pressures with a naked-but-for-a-plush-green-spotted-tail five-year-old and say “Just get bloody dressed. NOW.”
Meanwhile, I’m conjuring up some sort of nutritional fare for the school day with a considerable deficit of options and the ten-year-old is on his iPad, which is strictly forbidden at this hour of the day as it is far too stressful for me to deal with, and the thirteen-year-old is going on and on and on about his fish looking like it is dying.
“Look,” I say to him, trying to keep my voice in check and failing slightly, “I can’t revive your dying goldfish right now!”
And I make the mistake of checking to see how the littlest one is progressing. It is not going well at all.
Also, I, too, can be a stubborn arse when I want to and decide that, today, I refuse to give in to the purple/white shirt thing and his white shirts can stay on the freaking line. A purple shirt will not kill him and he needs to know this.
Also, by this stage, time is running short and I just … I just can’t.
I gently and calmly (no, really) place the shirt over his screaming head and flailing arms as I attempt to avoid the kicking of the legs. A few further moments are spent in a battle between him trying to pull the ‘boring’, ‘poisonous’, and hateful shirt from his body, as I hold it down amongst the thrashing limbs.
Monkey Boy, horrendous some moments and a godsend other moments, steps up and calmly assists me with getting The Screaming Chippie into the car, whilst I gather all I need for two business meetings and the list of items I require to get my shit sorted later in the afternoon.
The car is out of petrol.
Petrol obtained, but this resulted in Monkey Boy having to do a dreaded three-block-walk to school, because I am horrible.
Arrive at primary school, warn teacher of Chippie’s purple shirt trauma, get firm and explain to her that I don’t think she is taking it at all seriously – I mean, come on, it’s a