T’is the morning of the Under 12’s boys basketball grand final and we’re all up and almost ready to go with plenty of time to spare.
So much time, in fact, that we have looooooaaaaaads of opportunity for the “Can I watch YouTube/play Minecraft?”/”No! Not before basketball!” vicious loop.
Also, it gave Chippie plenty of time to not get dressed, either.
All fun and games. I kind of almost wish we’d slept in so this amount of Not Doing What’s Asked was reduced considerably, but I also know that the issues with oversleeping are just as taxing one’s mind and throat.
Finishing off an item on my list (i.e. get appropriately dressed and maybe run a brush through my hair) I wander out of my bedroom. Those moments I was otherwise occupied has brought some kind of sibling cameraderie to the fore and Godzilla was doing some kind of frenetic dance move, whilst his brothers rolled around laughing, and saying “I’m twerking!”
“That’s not twerking,” I tell them, exasperated.
“No, this twerking,” says Chippie, sticking his bum out towards me and wiggling it about.
“That’s not twerking either,” I say. “Can we get in the car now?”
Godzilla and Chippie are not satisfied and continue to thrust bums about, in significantly different movements, and say “No, THIS is twerking, not that!”
Clearly not going to get any movement until I did something drastic, I stood in the middle of the kitchen, firmly planting my feet, putting a serious look on my face and gearing up for a Loud Angry Proclamation that would get their arses moving and out the door.
“THIS is twerking!” I say, and proceed to give them a demonstration of twerking.
I could tell I got it spot on by the horrified look of Monkey Boy, my thirteen-year-old.
“Was that it?” I ask, cos, really I wasn’t entirely sure.
It’s not like, you know, I googled “how to twerk” or anything like that, nor that I carefully watched the videos.
Okay, well I