The mum with the horrible kids


It appears I am That Mum.

Or, rather, as I prefer to think of it, I have Those Kids.

It started in the pool with Chippie – and my freshly waxed legs, but that fact has little to no impact on this story, just I finally feel acceptable. Except hat Aunt Of A Kid has turned up to watch, freshly returned from Bali or Phuket, complete with svelt, tanned body, new bikini she looks stunning in, sun streaked blonde hair, and replica snotty brand sunglasses. I suddenly feel inadequate and pretend to be a crocodile and all good motherish, with my toddler climbing all over me and giggling and laughing.

It was a ruse. I was just trying to hide my legs.

Anyhoo, Chippie found a toy on the side of the pool, which I had thought belonged to the pool. Turns out it belonged to Another Child, whom expresses, calmly, his dislike of Chippie holding it. As toddlers are want to do. And as I wish they bloody wouldn’t.

Chippie took offense to these mild, albeit whiney, protests and smacked Another Child in the mouth with his own toy.

As toddlers are wont to do. And I wish the wouldn’t.

He then took great offense to my expressing my innaceptance of such behaviour by saying “NO” – loudly, out of shock and to ensure that every parent in the suburb knew, without a doubt, that I am not the sort of parent who is oblivious, accepting or non-chalante about such smacking in mouths and, therefore, could not be judged unfavourably.

Then I made him say “sorry”. Which resulted in him

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