The Day Still Ends. Even on your birthday.

I neglected to mention, earlier, another highlight of my morning.

It is actually a continuance of a conversation had a few days earlier with my ten year old, Monkey Boy, which went along the lines of “Mum, can you get me some new shorts, I only have one pair.”

Followed by “Um, no, I’m pretty sure you have a few more than that. In fact, I know you have at least 3 more pairs that a year ago were too big for you. Go look.”

“I have” “look harder” “I did” “Obviously you didn’t” etc etc blah blah blah

And so on and so forth until this morning “No, serioulsly, Mum, I have no shorts.”

“It’s my birthday and I don’t have to buy anyone anything today. Besides … let me look … one, two, hmmm, three pairs, four, five … right, there’s six from that drawer alone. And, what, seven ….”

“Ok, I have shorts. Can you please stop throwing them at me now,” he begs.

“In a minute. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve and … whoops, thirteen. Yup, thirteen pairs of shorts. Now put them all away before you go to school.”

That was before I dropped them off and well before I got splattered with water that had been marinating faeces for two days.

After hanging another few loads of washing and doing some writing, it was time to collect older kids from school. Monkey Boy was located after some moments hanging off a tree, shoeless. Thus, we got home later than anticipated. Just in time, in fact, for me to leave pretty much as soon as we returned, to collect Chippie.

So I do.

Some horrible, thoughtless, shit-stirring mother at childcare had decided to collect her children in a car that is exactly the same as ours. Chippie saw it and decided he’d prefer to drive home than walk with me. When I say “walk with me” I mean him sitting in a pram whilst I walked. Explaining the car ownership detail was beyond his willingness to comprehend, so I had to walk across the car park, dodging Pick Up Time Traffic to show him it wasn’t our car. The mother in question aided me by opening her door and showing Chippie. In his usual fashion, he resisted her chatter, and greatly resisted the fact that the car wasn’t ours.

He screamed for a bit.

I walked over the train bridge. “Do you want to see a train?” I said, attempting to divert his attention.

“NO! I don’ wanna seeya train!” he screamed.

Then “I wanna seeya train!” he screamed louder, just as we left the bridge.


“I don’t wanna walk on a fence!” he informed me and the next three suburbs.

“I wanna walk on the fence!” he advised the northern and western suburbs of Melbourne as we past the end of the walkable on fence.

And so on and so for this theme of conversation continued until he escaped from his pram in a bid to run back to the latest fence he could walk on. I was ready, and dived across to grab his arm. Which, of course, slipped from my grasp and he raced off, causing me to run, innappopriately dressed for such activity, after him and capture him right in front of the fire station.

Where he screamed a little louder. A small part of me prayed the suitably built men inside would come and wrestle me to the ground before calling the police and having me locked up for the night. But they didn’t. Sadly, I think they are now immune to the shenanigans performed by my family in front of their station.

Eventually, we make it home, where he refuses to let me help him out of the pram, screaming his protests, then demanding at high volume I help him out. He stands outside the door, refusing to come in, yelling at me to come back and close the door. I do what I need to do first, and on a walk past, I reach out and pull it closed, where he proceeds to bash on the door before collapsing to the ground and yelling “let me in!” and I contemplated calling the police myself, to have them come and take me away.

“I’m having a fucking fabulous birthday,” I tell Grumpy Pants.

“That’s nice. Can you put your folded clothes away, please?” I suspect the sarcasm was lost on him. He went and got himself a beer, forgetting my wine.

Dinner (not the one I really wanted … in fact, one of my least favourite meals) is cooked. I eat. I inform everyone I am off to have a quiet, relaxing bath. And that I wished to be alone.

Apparently, this is code for “Everyone get naked and jump in with me!” as this is exactly what happened. Complete with the Eight Year Old Penis Pointing In My

5 Replies to “The Day Still Ends. Even on your birthday.”

  1. Oh happy, very belated, and as it turned out, somewhat crappy, birthday!!!

    Your birthday may have sucked but I’ve just discovered you are gonna rock the zoo with me (and others) and I am very excited that we might actually get to have a conversation that actually goes beyond “Oh hello! I finally get to meet you….” So that has to make up for the crap birthday… maybe just a little bit??? a teeny tiny smidge??

  2. My birthday sucked too. I reckon next year I will book on an overnight retreat to a spa all by myself, far far away. Wish yours will be better too.

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