My euphoria wasn’t too last.
Nay. It was time to collec the smallest one, who is (oh, thank fuck!) happy and chatty and not crying when I pick him up, nor on the way home, nor when we get home and his older brothers aren’t there.
I set about preparing evening meal, having delegated the much loathed task of gymnastics and basketball to GrumpyPants. Particularly as my highly planned organisation of ferrying children to various venues at the same time, with toddler in tow, has been thrown into disarray what with changes in times for both of them.
They arrive home, Godzilla, having made a team, had his first proper training session and is requesting I use some “of that ironing paint” and paint the club logo onto one of his singlets (currently stuffed in the back of a drawer) and iron it till it sets.
In the meantime, Grumpy is on the phone to someone from the Club discussing when, where and how we can get our hands on the uniform, and relaying such things, between my “no, seriously, I’m not doing it, stop askings” to Godzilla, along the lines of “ok , and they’ll be given numbers, and what, they need to be sewn on. Sure, I’ll let her know.”
Who? Let who know? Why is he looking at me? Why is he hanging up and saying things like “You need to be there by 6.30 to get the uniform, and they’ll give you the numbers and you’ll have to sew them on.”
There’s no one else in the room.
I’m not sure who he’s talking to.
Am fairly sure that not only has he not seen me sew, but he’s also fairly vocal on the lack of sewing criticisms.
Not only do I not sew or iron, but I also seem to be struggling with explaining to an unwilling Godzilla that I’m not able to perform such duties as painting a basketball onto a singlet, using blue paint, ironing it and making it look like the orangey-tan colour of his basketball.
Black, maybe I can do. But that’s only due to my ironing inadequacies.
Now, if only the kids hadn’t buggered up all my permanent markers by regrouting the bathroom and face “painting” each other, I’d be fine.