This morning was crazy.
Basketball, followed by gymnastics, followed by dropping Grumpy off for teensy, minor surgical procedure.
Given the tight time frames, and the need for dropping off, we all went together, as opposed to our usual One Parent Does One Activity, Other Parent Does Other. Fighting Over Who Doesn’t Take Three Year Old also ensues. Most weeks.
Not today, however. We all piled into the car for Stupid Hour Basketball Game, a semi-final. Which means the clock stops at various intervals. And we are running late for … well, everything from there on in …
Do a drive by at gymnastics to offload Monkey Boy and head to Grumpy’s destinatin. Which is the wrong location and we get to do more driving around to get to the right place. Late. All good.
I take the other two home for a bit. Leaving me plenty of time to collect Grumpy and head straight to gymnastics to do final collection for the day. Grumpy doesn’t call to tell me he is finished. And doesn’t call. And doesn’t call.
Until, of course, it is time to leave so Monkey Boy isn’t left sitting around. Grumpy is in one direction, ten year old in the other.
Finally, we are home. Grumpy, after his minor procedure, requiring two small incisions with a scalpel, is, apparently, dying. He must got and lie down. I let him. Best he be in the bedroom than out in the living area annoying me with his Boy Pain.
Also, he left me with Monkey Boy, who was ina disgustingly feral mood, lashing out at every “no”, which he was getting becuase he was being an arse head. Had he not been an arse head, the “nos” wouldn’t have been forthcoming and he wouldn’t have been lashing out.
Such is the conundrum of parenting “they” refuse to mention.
I tell him to go speak to his father. Not because I can’t handle it and am doing that “wait till your father gets home”. Mostly so he would avoid death. Or loss of Lego for the next three centuries. To get him out of my face. He went to see Grumpy, went all quiet and I found them both asleep.
That would explain the horribleness of said child.
Eventually they arose; Grumpy 5 hours after going down. Five. Hours.
“I’m sick,” he informs me.
Every 2.7 minutes.
Every time I glanced in his vague direction.
With a big smile on his face.
“You’re not bloody sick. Sore, maybe. Sick, no. Now shut up,” I said as I so obviously tended to his needs at the time and comforted him in his hour (or eight) of neediness.
“Fuck off, you’re starting to annoy me now. Go away,” I continued after several more “I’m sicks” and “can you get me a beer?”
Instead, I grabbed the pack of meds he was required to take, which had a sticker stating no alcohol was to be consumed, right next to a sticker that said consumption of alcohol whilst taking said meds may make you drowsy. Well, five fucking hours of sleep’ll cure that, surely.
Still, I used the “no alcohol” to my advantage, started preparing dinner and asked him to pour me a wine. I’m nice like that.
Also, his “But I’m sick” was really starting to get to