What's in a name?

Ah, the Saturday morning joy, where I forget that they no longer belong to me and involve watching some under 10s fuddle their way around a basketball court, get home and listen to Grumpy Pants on his Lets Tidy The House Up Rant, whereby he speaks to everyone like shit (becuase he’s “sick of all the crap lying around”) and can’t get anyone to cooperate.

Mostly because they don’t like being spoken to like shit.

Thus the Stop Speaking To Everyone Like Shit And Maybe They’ll Cooperate conversation is had and everyone ends up either speaking to everyone else like shit, or not cooperating. Usually both.

That sorted, I did my bit, spoke to Grumpy about the most appropriate way to to speak to, and ask Godzilla to do stuff in order to extract the most cooperation from him.

Head into office to do a few bits and pieces and heard the “Come and pick up all this crap on the floor!”

Ah, yes. The good old Encourage A Child To Help command. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. I know where this is going …

Yup, there … Mr Literal, Godzilla, replies “It’s NOT CRAP!”

Fairy nuff.

“Look, just get it off the floor. If you don’t, I’m gonna sweep all your crap into the bin!”

Yeah. That’ll work.

It’s not CRAP!!!!” Godzilla yells again and I contemplate stepping in. Partly to get stuff functioning. Mostly so it’ll stop.

Before I do, Godzilla adds, and quite rightly, “Anyway, you’re on the floor, so you’re CRAP!

At which point I had to hide under my desk so no one could hear me laughing. Which, of itself, was stupid as my desk does nothing to prevent noise from escaping out the door.

Eventually, stuff is picked up off the floor, and only floor sweepings are swept up.

Then its grabbing a birthday present for a birthday party we have to leave for iin an hour and a half and only found out about on Thursday night at 6pm. Well, technically, the invite was handed out a few weeks back, and Grumpy was bailed up by birthday kid’s dad after school, and I was informed when they returned from swimming lessons and when he remembered. Drop Godzilla at birthday party, organise for him to come home with … someone else … he tells me he’s going to go home with Not The Dad We’d Arranged, then confirms my fears by replying “I don’t know” when, as I was leaving, confirmed with him that he knew what was going on. And who he was coming home with.

Left after informing birthday parents that if he wasn’t home by 4 (two hours after party completion) I’d ring and find out where he was.

After that harrowing day, I treated myself to a nice, hot bath. Complete with bubbles, lavender oil and three boys. Manage to get rid of the older two after about ten minutes and send the biggest one to go and get my towel for me.

“Here you are Sir Mummy of Mummington!” he responds, holding my towel between finger and thumb as though it were infeseted with something revolting. Quite possibly Girl Germs.

“That would be Lady Mummy to you, small child!” I reply, smiling. “And it would serve you well to remember that and my superior status,” I remind him.

“Whatever. Here you go Sir Mummy of Mummington,” and ceremoniously drops my towel into the considerably large puddle that has formed beside the bath, courtesy of Chippie and is complete inablity to comprehend “NO! Don’t pour water over the side of the bath!”

Followed, of course, with a small spate of kicking tantruming in said bath and a toddlers rendition of “ring-a-ring-a-rosie”. Both of which produce much splashing. And puddles on the floor to which my towel may be dumped.

Hmmm. Glad he recalled my status as Lady of Mummington. I wonder if all Ladies are treated in such a manner.

And what they would do with their children should the same occur in their bathrooms?

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