The Not Very Nice Day

Now we can actually start moving things into the ‘new’ house, Grumpy Pants has extra shifts at work. This makes life so much simpler.

As it turns out, I’m presented with the duty of gymnastics classes with the pre-schooler, which I sometimes look forward to, except that I get caught, every single week, doing a cartwheel. One once, just once, pushing a kid off the beam so I could have a go …

Anyhoo, as I’m going about getting a bit of work done, grasping at whatever free moments I have to do, I upload an image to the new blog I’ve been working on, complete with over 200 entries and several days worth of customising. It’s looking pretty, and getting very close to being presentable.

I’m happy.

And then it does nothing.

Tech become involved and I am given the diagnosis of “It’s totally fucked”.

Inevitably, this puts my mood in good stead for dealing with the day *sigh*

I sensed a need to get out; go for a walk, be outside, get some fresh air before I went completely off my nut.

Chippie agreed and was most compliant in getting dressed and putting his bike helmet on.

That is, until we walked out the door and he must have realised there was little to no drama and things were going my way a little too easily.

“I don’t wanna ride mine bike,” he tells me, as he climbs onto it. Then off again.

Then he SCREAMS. And stomps and yells and cries because … well, because he wanted to ride his bike and all was going well …

Just short of stuffing him into the letterbox, I have no idea how I did it, but I drew in a breath, called him a “little fucker” and dragged him inside and calmly, calmly had words to him.

Just Walk Away my head screamed and oh, how I wanted to.

Herein lies the dilemma. I am a very firm believe of walking away, especially before someone gets hurt. I was at that point. It had been a rough few months. Eighteen of them, to be exact.

I knew without a doubt, I needed to get out of the house, because walking away from the child was not going to be enough. Walking away from the child, but not the house, was looking dangerous.

Walking away from the house with the child was not looking terribly safe either.

As I saw it, my only option was to walk away from the child and the house, leaving the child and the house together.

My fear was, I had no idea how long I would be gone for.

Also the Bad Parenting Police would be onto me and lock me in Guilt Trip Hell for all Eternity.

It was, really, a no win situation.

I managed to talk him into coming. Basically, “get the fuck out, we’re leaving, now” – because sometimes you need to a) vent and b) resort to some tough lovin’ – doing both at the same time is not all bad.

Also, that moments earlier I was sitting on the kitchen floor, sobbing and ingnoring his being upset may have highlighted just how much of a little fucker he was being and how he may or may not have pushed it too far today.

We got our walk. We got what we needed up the street, as well as some sunshine, fresh air, and relative peace.

We survive it. Minds and bodies intact.

Home in time for lunch and cuddles and watching a DVD (and packing more boxes and moving more shit) before school pickup. Realising I’m not going to make it, I text around to a variety of friends/school mums to ask them to send the two big boys home and I’d meet them their.

Receive a call from the Vice Principal of the school to let me know Godzilla has a puncture in his tire, and the plans all go to shit.

Get them home.

Get dinner.

Get into the foetal position at the back of the wardrobe as Chippie has a tantrum because … “I wanna lie onna couch.”

“Ok, then,” I reply.

And he is off …

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