Raising Psychologically Damaged Children

Last night, as I was killing time before dinner was served and I had to leave for a meeting, the kids decided they wanted to play with me.

Chippie had been at me for a while, insisting I sit in a particular chair so he could “zap” me. I have no idea what this was, but he was adamant about it. Unrelenting.

It turns out it was the rocking chair I’ve had since Monkey Boy was born, and that someone had draped one of those vibrating massage seat things over. I hate those things. They make my brain rattle and make me feel sick.

He dragged me over, sat me in it, tied me to the chair with bandages they’d located who knows where and turned it on before advising me I was “dead”, pulling me out and telling me to lie on the floor.

With the aid of Monkey Boy they proceeded to bind my hands and feet, talk about cutting my feet of and … rather spooky and more than a little freaky from a four year old, “Now we’re gonna bury you in a shallow grave!”

I’m not sure, again, if I should be disturbed and worried by this, or just prevent him spending so much time with his older brother.

They then “buried” me by piling cushions and bean bags on top of me.

Being prepped for burialI sent a message off to those whom I was meeting advising that if I didn’t show, I was probably buried in a shallow grave somewhere and then had to pose for a few photos, because my children are weird.

Whilst there, I had plenty of time to contemplate the normality of said behaviour and all those things I may or may not have done ‘wrong’ in the formative years of their lives.

Given all three were born via C-section (the first emergency, the second two ‘planned’ – as though I had some choice in the matter), they all required supplementation of some sort, I quite likely got pissed in the weeks post conception, I utilised methods that suited me to ensure they slept and stayed in their bedrooms, which, depending on the ‘expert’ you speak to is the right thing, or totally guided towards life-long psychological damage.

I have cuddled and reassured, got angry and yelled, soothed and sworn at the them and in front of them.

Yep, pretty sure I’m on the right track for screwing them up for life.

I did manage to escape and get myself to the meeting, barely on time. Well, a few minutes late; not because I was being tortured by my own offspring, but because Grumpy Pants encouraged me to try using his GPS and I spent ten minutes fucking around with it before retrieving the Melways and locating where I wanted to head in approximately thirteen seconds.

2 Replies to “Raising Psychologically Damaged Children”

  1. I love that you chuck the gps and head for the melways! I grew up in melbourne and have lived in Brisbane Townsvill Sydney and Canberra and I still call it the Melways! Much confusion to friends!
    The one time I have borrowed a gps I was so busy laughing at the accent and the need to ‘take the third exit on the rotarary’ it was no help at all!

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