In my place

After wagging basketball yesterday morning (late night, slightly off child etc) our morning went from scheduled, to re-planned to complete change of plans.

Monkey Boy still had gymnastics, Grumpy had to go into work, but presented the illusion he was going to remain supine under the doona for several hours longer and the shopping needed doing. Grumpy arise form the near-dead and threw the morning into chaos by offering to take Monkey Boy. The upside was, I got to take two kids shopping and kill the hours between gymnastics start and finish, as opposed to taking three kids after gymnastics.

Done! With Chippie screaming as I put him in the car (Wanna watch, Thomas, don’t wanna go!), buckled him in (Not in here, wanna sit dere!), drove to shopping (No, don’t go dis way, DON’T. Go dat way!), drove to the upper car park (No, not up here. Go dere!), attempted to put him in the trolley (No. Don’t wanna go in dere!), placed him beside the trolley and head into the supermarket (WANNA SIT IN DA TROLLEY!).

Shopping then completed with interjections at the end of every second isle by Godzilla; “Are we going to the counters, now?”

Until I advised him that if he kept saying it we would be longer as I had to keep stopping to tell him to be quiet, please stop, please stop asking, not yet, no, we’re nearly done, will you please shut up now, no, seriously, shut up, if you keep asking we’ll be longer becuase I have to keep stopping to tell you to shut up!

And he stoppped.

Enough time to go home, stuff shopping items in various places of storage and head off to collect Monkey Boy, whom had a fabulous morning, did well, been asked to attend a second class during the week as he’s really improving and should be doing the harder competitions. Arrive home.

Monkey Boy, all happy only moments ago, looks at me, goes pale, says “I’m gonna be sick” and retches over the table, adorned with various bits of imporant info, the Census form for Tuesday night, today’s paper that I haven’t looked at, and yesterday’s paper that also hasn’t been molested by my eyes. I also think the one from Tuesday last week is there.

Mothering Instincts kick in and I yell “RUN! Do not vomit on the table, go!” and he does.

Many years ago, I was holding back the hair of my friends as they vomited into toilets. Now I’m doing it for my ten year old son.

Note to self: Must get his hair trimmed. SOON!

Thankfully, it’s not due to overingestion of alcohol, and I wish to remain in the disillusion that it never will be. I just hope he has friends to hold his hair back for him when the time comes.

He was then feeling so appalling

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