It was earlier this year that things got very bad for Chippie.
I had asked him to unstack the dishwasher, for it is his job to do. He is also paid pocket money to do so, amongst other things.
“Boring” is his favourite. It’s a “boring” job.
We’ve also since come to realise that “boring” is a filler for any word that his small vocabulary and still developing brain are unable to articulate.
This day, however, it was “The worst job in the world”.
And that, your honour, is how we came to be having discussions about divers in Mexico, who’s job it is to diver-outfit up, whack on their oxygen tanks, and submerge themselves into the sewerage system that runs below the city in order to tend to any blockages.
True. This job exists.
I offered to train Chippie up for it, given unstacking our dishwasher was far, far more horrible than swimming amongst the sewer salmon beneath Mexico.
Not so many months later, I picked him up from school only to be advised that it was “The worst day EVER!”
Upon delving into this further, thoughts of bullying, being teased or hurt, or some other horrible, traumatic thing happening to my delightful little cherub, I was to learn he was not being teased or bullied. He was not beaten up, hurt, or otherwise taunted.
No. He had been “asked to write”.
Hmm, yes, I can see how this would make it the worst day ever.
Things have not got better for the Little One.
Only this weekend, his older brother attempted to toss his frisbee over the local wetlands lake. I had already anticipated the outcome of this, given Monkey Boy’s throwing prowess, well, basically it sucks.
Inevitably, the frisbee landed in the middle of the lake, Chippie sat down under the weight of his devastation and declared, loudly, that Monkey Boy had “ruined his life”.
(Eight minutes later, Monkey Boy had fixed said ruined life by retrieving the soggy frisbee – one that is designed specifically to be used in watery circumstances anyway).
Yesterday, it was a drive off into the sunset for family day. Not the sunset, really, but just about an hour that way (that was depends on how we’re feeling in the morning, and I have no idea what direction things go in, but I think we went south-east. Ish) to wander around the bushes and beach.
A short stop over at Coles to gather some food-like provisions. It took only a mere 2.35 minutes for Chippie, who turned seven only last Tuesday, to declare that we had been in there sooooooo looooooooong that he was now eight.
Slightly shorter than an incident last week, where he declared that in the five minutes we were looking for a thing for him to buy that he turned “one thousand and seven” because we’d been there for “a thousand years”.
The most traumatic, however, worse even than the worst day of his life and how his life was ruined, was the hot chocolate he had ordered.
It was delivered. Hot. Chocolatey.
Too, hot, apparently.
For he went to great lengths to remind his father, and explain to me, how that his dad had “tried to kill him”.
Hrm. Death by hot chocolate, but not as one would imagine …