The final day?

Today was auction day.

The day our house is auctioned; and we’re feeling good and positive and hoping like hell it is all over with my 2.15 this afternoon. Or sooner.

Our morning was covered with distractions and keeping the kids out of the way; basketball and gymnastics that we can easily drag our for over 3 hours. I get to take Chippie to the pre-9am game with me (Godzilla has improved remarkably and its far less stressful to watch) before heading off to gymnastics to “watch” Monkey Boy for another hour and a bit. That’s the plan. Instead, I’m playing Angry Birds with Godzilla with one eye, watching Chippie climb the Chair Mountain stacked to one side of the waiting room, or climbing in and out of the Lost Property Box with the other eye, and keeping yet another eye on Monkey Boy so I can honestly say “yep, you were awesome on the rings!”

I managed to nearly concuss myself on the meter box, being forced to be a carriage on Chippie’s train, as he drags me around other parents, happily reading and knitting and relaxing. This is only an hour after being hit in head with a basketball during a similar scenario around a basketball court.

My head hurts.

Chippie, clearly deciding it didn’t hurt enough, chooses to have a full on screaming tanty as we are trying to leave gymnastics because I gave Monkey Boy a lolly pop. I don’t usually give them one, but had some in my bag (I believe Monkey Boy helped himself to a rather large handful at the Cars 2 event the other day, and stashed them in my bag) and needed some form of Shut Me Up for Godzilla and Chippie. Godzilla mistakes boredom for hunger and Chippie just wants.

So I shut them up, and shut Monkey Boy up before Godzilla could start the “We had a lolly pop and you didn’t” and Monkey Boy starting on the subsequent and inevitable “Where’s mine?”

Chippie has the attention span and short term memory of a 3 year old and just wants.

So … he’s on floor screaming. I leave with oldest two. Unfortunately, “leaving” requires crossing a car park which is now writhing with Mums Doing Gymnastics Pick Up and Mums Doing Gymnastics Drop Off and we all know they can be a free for all, with our focus entirely on the next available car parking spot and any potential, perceived, but not necessarily actual, threats to that car parking spot, and not on shit head pre-schoolers having screaming tanties as they run through the car park.

I offload my bag, shoes and stuff and walk back to hoist Chippie up by his hand, still kicking and screaming, and hold him up so he is forced to walk.

Sure, sure, I could attempt to comfort and console him, but every time I do that I get a kick in the face, boob or twat and I’m not prepared to risk it. When he’s in mid tantrum, you can take your cuddles and comforting and get fucked. It’s the way he is.

We navigate the war zone that is the car park and cross one road, my arm held firm, him doing that running, stomping, kicking thing and screaming that he would now, if you could be so ever kind, like to throw Monkey Boy’s lolly pop wrapper in the bin. Please mummy, I’m sure was added to that banshee-like scream.

We make it halfway down the lane to the next street when I make the fatal mistake of relaxing my arm for a mere second (my bicep was cramping) and he throws himself to the ground, and there is that moment where you do a fancy, stumbly-jumpy-dancing thing to avoid standing on his person. Make it to the car (he nearly didn’t) and I discover he has grazes on the back of his hand. And blood. Great.

The trip home is a combination of him screaming “I want daddy!” (yep, me too, can’t wait to hand you over) and “I wanna get out the car” (yep, me too, but in this society, despite how badly you’re wanting it, I’m the dumb fuck that gets into trouble for giving you what you want) and “You hurt my hand. You scratch me!” when he discovers his hand is sore and bleeding.

Yep. All my fault.

Make it home without pulling over, getting out in the middle of the freeway and screaming. Impressive.

Walk inside and have major rant at confused Grumpy Pants.

Chippie comes in, still crying, “Mummy did hurt me! Mummy did scratch my hand!”

And I get to do bandaid application and soothing cuddling, whilst Grumpy does the vacuuming. Chippie has most of his fit out of his system, so my girly bits are all safe from a flailing, wayward foot.

We still have two and a bit hours before the auction. Oh, and surprise, surprise, “hungry kids”. I’m not sure how I do it, but I successfully navigate some re-dressing, hiding dirty washing, keeping the bits Grumpy has cleaned and tidied clean and tidy and gather everyone up to leave the house. There will be, under no circumstances, eating in the house until later this afternoon.

So it’s pies and sauce up the street.

Or, in our case, pie and sauce down the front of Chippie’s face, shirt and pants. Then he eats a banana.

And our plan for not allowing the kids to return to the house are thwarted.

We make it home, and send the kids off to the neighbours, where they shall stay until we are ready for them. June 2025, I think.

The auction is not only an anticlimax but also a dismal failure.

And we get to do another month or so of Saturdays just like this (except not the auction bit)

Oooh, I can’t wait.


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