The past couple of weeks have been insanity on crack in this household.
The Things have been high on candy canes for about, oh, a month now. I'm waiting for the insulin downer. Should happen any day from December 26. I'm thinking of enroling them into the local methadone program with all the other three to nine-year-olds.
The Return of the Zombie Housewives has returned to all Kmarts and Big W's near you. In the toy aisles it's a total moshpit of body-odour, pram riding sugar junkies and the possible homicides (who knows WHAT could happen if you reach for the last Battle Blade or Trash Pack).
This is the time of the year when parents around the western hemisphere share many WTF moments. For example, what is with Trash Packs? It's kind of like a smurf renaissance but uglier. Hideous little plastic monsters in their own lime green bin. That's it. But the kids LOVE them and if you have any chance of being "with it" you've got to "have it". If Thing One doesn't get a Trash Pack for Christmas he will advertise for a new family. Landfill, that's the only word that springs to mind.
Speaking of new families, that is exactly what Thing One suggested we get Thing Two for Christmas. Nice.
A little spat over who gets the TV remote results in sibling trafficking.
Yes, I've got real charmers in this household.
Watching tele the other night (one of those classy neighbourhood dispute/hidden camera/thank-god-it's-not-me programs) and I said "Hey, is that person in the green top a man or a woman?"
"Woman," replied Thing One.
"Gahd. Looks like a man," said I.
"YOU look like a man," Thing One proclaimed.
"WHAaaaa?"
"You do."
Needless to say he is getting a new school uniform for Christmas.
On another occasion I was snuggling up to Thing Two on the couch:
"Are you going to look after Mummy when she gets old and demented?" I asked giving him a smooch.
"No," he replied.
I repeated the question thinking he must have surely misunderstood.
"No Mum," he said again.
"Why not?"
"Because you're not going to get old."
Ah bless. He is getting six Trash Packs for Christmas.
In other news The Madness is set to continue well into the next year. Actually, I will probably not see anyone except my Things and Humphrey (sometimes) for the next four years. (Great, does that mean I can grow my whiskers and live on Fruchocs?)
La Charlotta is going to Law School as of February. Yes, insane, I know.
I'm terrified, excited and feeling utterly ill about it all at the same time. Excited because I love a mental challenge, terrified because the workload is insane and ill because I'm wondering how I can continue being The Bestest Mother In All Christendom whilst learning about torts and contracts and terrified because, well, I don't like failing. So, I'm going to give it a crack or "suck it and see" as Humphrey so eloquently put it.
Wish me luck my lovelies. I'll be in an out and all around over the next couple of months and I want to wish all of you the Very Best Christmas In The History of The World. XXXXXXXXXXXX
Showing posts with label Things. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Things. Show all posts
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Apple Noses and A Fable
This Morning.
Me: "Bratley (aka Thing 2) why did you not eat your apple at school yesterday?"
Bratley: "I couldn't. It had a NOSE."
(Upon inspection said apple did indeed have a little wart thing on it. Thing 1 has it in his lunchbox today).
Last Night:
After at least an hour of asking, begging, pleading and then downright screaming like a banchee the Things finally decided that in the interests of living to see another day, they would go to bed.
After five minutes, from behind their bedroom door, I hear a screech and growl by Thing 1, followed by peals of laughter and hiccoughy giggles by Thing 2. This went on for a couple of minutes - so being nosey I decided to creep up to their door tocheck that they were ok eavesdrop - yeah, you know what they say about eavesdropping......
It went like this:
Thing 1: "No wait, wait. She goes like this; GROWWWWWWWLGETINTABEDRIGHTNOOOOOOWWWWYOUTWOOO" (gnashing of teeth for sound effects).
Thing2: (giggling) "Yeah, yeah, that's what she does" (guffaw).
Thing1: "No wait. It's more like BRATLEEEEYANDGRUNTLEEEEYGETYOURBUTTSINTOBEDNOW!HAVEYOUBRUSHEDYOURTEETH?????" (snorts with laughter at own fabulous sense of humour).
Thing 2: (obviously rolling around with mirth) "Butt. You just said BUTT!" (more giggling).
Thing 1: (sounds like he's doing an Incredible Hulk impression) "ROOOOOOOOOOOARRRRRGETINTOBEDGROWLLLL." Then in normal voice,
"Oh, what about when she talks to Dad, it's like (insert galah screech) "HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMPPPHREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECOMEANDDEALWITHYOURKIDS!"
Thing 2: (choking with laughter) "Yeah, and BUTT CHEEKS."
So, it's official, my children think I'm a fishwife.
I'm still giggling though.
(And no, Bratley and Gruntley are definitely not the names bestowed upon Things 1 and 2, their real names are much worse).
Me: "Bratley (aka Thing 2) why did you not eat your apple at school yesterday?"
Bratley: "I couldn't. It had a NOSE."
(Upon inspection said apple did indeed have a little wart thing on it. Thing 1 has it in his lunchbox today).
Last Night:
After at least an hour of asking, begging, pleading and then downright screaming like a banchee the Things finally decided that in the interests of living to see another day, they would go to bed.
After five minutes, from behind their bedroom door, I hear a screech and growl by Thing 1, followed by peals of laughter and hiccoughy giggles by Thing 2. This went on for a couple of minutes - so being nosey I decided to creep up to their door to
It went like this:
Thing 1: "No wait, wait. She goes like this; GROWWWWWWWLGETINTABEDRIGHTNOOOOOOWWWWYOUTWOOO" (gnashing of teeth for sound effects).
Thing2: (giggling) "Yeah, yeah, that's what she does" (guffaw).
Thing1: "No wait. It's more like BRATLEEEEYANDGRUNTLEEEEYGETYOURBUTTSINTOBEDNOW!HAVEYOUBRUSHEDYOURTEETH?????" (snorts with laughter at own fabulous sense of humour).
Thing 2: (obviously rolling around with mirth) "Butt. You just said BUTT!" (more giggling).
Thing 1: (sounds like he's doing an Incredible Hulk impression) "ROOOOOOOOOOOARRRRRGETINTOBEDGROWLLLL." Then in normal voice,
"Oh, what about when she talks to Dad, it's like (insert galah screech) "HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMPPPHREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECOMEANDDEALWITHYOURKIDS!"
Thing 2: (choking with laughter) "Yeah, and BUTT CHEEKS."
So, it's official, my children think I'm a fishwife.
I'm still giggling though.
(And no, Bratley and Gruntley are definitely not the names bestowed upon Things 1 and 2, their real names are much worse).
Saturday, November 26, 2011
GroundhogDayGroundhogDayGroundhogDayGroundhogDayGroundHogDay
Sunday means pack up and haul ourselves back into town after a weekend of fun on the farm.
Meh.
For those of you not intimately acquainted, my husband Humphrey is a shepherd.
He lives on a bit of a plot about ninety hundred miles from everywhere and tends his sheep. The Things and I lived out there too until our youngest was diagnosed with autism and we decided that in the best interests of him not turning into a strange hermit during his teens it would be prudent to get him into school - where he can learn more bad habits and anti social behaviours from other children.
The plot is too far out of town to commute daily so we squat in a derelict cottage during the week and hitch rides home on any passing camel trains each Friday.
Ninety percent of the time this arrangement works perfectly well. The Things and I get to spend a bit of time with Humphrey, and Humphrey gets his bathrooms cleaned, his laundry done and enough mutton roasted to keep him in sandwiches for a week. Most of the time I don't mind slapping around a bit of Jaysol and using a chisel to remove soap scum and man grease from the shower cubicle, but filthy toilets just. make. me. yeeeeesh.
How in the name of Sweet Baby Jesus this man manages to crud up two toilets in one week is a mystery and horror worthy of Hitchcock. What to Expect When You're Expecting, the Post Toddler Years did not inform me that owning boys would make it necessary to don a hazchem suit in order to hose out the toilet every two days.
It has also come to my attention that since I moved out all manner of mammal and insect has moved in.
The back verandah has been chewed to the rafters by termites and mice are nesting in the ceiling insulation, behind the fridge, in the wall cavity and the laundry basket. Poison and traps are terribly effective, but Humphrey needs to remember to remove the bloated carcasses (and no Humphrey, plugging in the AmbiPur an hour before I'm due home does not mask the odour of slimey, decomposing mouse corpse).
The timbers on the back verandah are lurching precariously into next week and the guttering is guttering in name only. Humphrey doesn't seem to notice. Men just don't rate things like...oh I don't know....creative decor, secondary colours and having a rain-proof roof.
In fact if I suggested we leave the homestead and pitch a tent he would probably be perfectly happy, provided he could bring the satellite dish in order to watch the AFL grandfinals.
God love him.
Meh.
For those of you not intimately acquainted, my husband Humphrey is a shepherd.
He lives on a bit of a plot about ninety hundred miles from everywhere and tends his sheep. The Things and I lived out there too until our youngest was diagnosed with autism and we decided that in the best interests of him not turning into a strange hermit during his teens it would be prudent to get him into school - where he can learn more bad habits and anti social behaviours from other children.
The plot is too far out of town to commute daily so we squat in a derelict cottage during the week and hitch rides home on any passing camel trains each Friday.
Ninety percent of the time this arrangement works perfectly well. The Things and I get to spend a bit of time with Humphrey, and Humphrey gets his bathrooms cleaned, his laundry done and enough mutton roasted to keep him in sandwiches for a week. Most of the time I don't mind slapping around a bit of Jaysol and using a chisel to remove soap scum and man grease from the shower cubicle, but filthy toilets just. make. me. yeeeeesh.
How in the name of Sweet Baby Jesus this man manages to crud up two toilets in one week is a mystery and horror worthy of Hitchcock. What to Expect When You're Expecting, the Post Toddler Years did not inform me that owning boys would make it necessary to don a hazchem suit in order to hose out the toilet every two days.
It has also come to my attention that since I moved out all manner of mammal and insect has moved in.
The back verandah has been chewed to the rafters by termites and mice are nesting in the ceiling insulation, behind the fridge, in the wall cavity and the laundry basket. Poison and traps are terribly effective, but Humphrey needs to remember to remove the bloated carcasses (and no Humphrey, plugging in the AmbiPur an hour before I'm due home does not mask the odour of slimey, decomposing mouse corpse).
The timbers on the back verandah are lurching precariously into next week and the guttering is guttering in name only. Humphrey doesn't seem to notice. Men just don't rate things like...oh I don't know....creative decor, secondary colours and having a rain-proof roof.
In fact if I suggested we leave the homestead and pitch a tent he would probably be perfectly happy, provided he could bring the satellite dish in order to watch the AFL grandfinals.
God love him.
Child Discipline From The Book of Revelations
Today the Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode into the lives of my children.
The Gates of Hell unleashed all kinds of ugly from about 8.30am - coincidentally the same time that I fell over a cricket bat artfully tossed across a family thoroughfare and impaled my knee on a Transformer.
Whilst I truly do want to be a Mum who makes their home into one great Montessori experience .... pffft!
You know that saying ... the one where boys always grow up to marry someone who reminds them of their Mother? Well, if that's the case my boys are each going to bring home Big Hal the army drill sergeant.
Lately most exchanges between good self and progeny have been prefixed with;
"If I have to say it ONE MORE TIME....."
"ONNNE....TWOOOO......THR....THR....." (because by this time I've dived into a vat of moonshine and can't count past thr...)
"Where do dirty dishes live? No....not on the floor of the TV room...." (or under your bed, or next to the dog's bowl, or under the couch...)
or suffixed with....
"....right THAT'S IT!" (and they're thinking "oh yeah...that's WHAT???")
"...I'm telling your Father." (because I'm ineffectual).
"......Gahd...you kids drive me...CRAZYYYYYYY". (because I'm ineffectual and I like a bit of emotional blackmail).
or
"....you'll be the death of me." (because I like conjuring my long dead Irish ancestors, and a bit of emotional blackmail).
All the while I'm actually fantasizing about lobbying for legal suffocation.
The fact is, sigh, I'm just sick to the gills with having to remind the Things to do/or not do the same things each and every day of the year.....
Just last week, cleaning under Thing One's bed, I found a dust bunny the size of a dugong, petrified chop bones and a quivering Viet Cong.
Each morning:
"Gruntley, have you done your homework?"
"Bratley, where are your shoes?"
"Have you made your beds yet?"
"Eat your breakfast..."
"Gruntley, have you done your homework?"
"Bratley, where are your shoes?"
"Have you made your beds yet?
"Eat your breakfast..."
Eventually this discourse degenerates into...
"Gruntley...HOMEWORK."
"Bratley...SHOES."
"BEDS!"
"BREAKFAST!"
And ultimately......
"HOMEWORKSHOESBEDSBREEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKFAAAAAAAAAST!!!
By this time I am quite dextrously banging my head on the kitchen wall and setting up an intravenous drip of vodka.
After I drop them at school I head to the post office, for stamps.
I think one to each forehead and no return address will do the trick.
Then I reconsider.....
Later in the evening, after I've tripped over more Lego and stubbed my toe on Thomas The Tank Engine I quickly browse through ebay....then type:
"Two boys....aged...."
The Gates of Hell unleashed all kinds of ugly from about 8.30am - coincidentally the same time that I fell over a cricket bat artfully tossed across a family thoroughfare and impaled my knee on a Transformer.
Whilst I truly do want to be a Mum who makes their home into one great Montessori experience .... pffft!
You know that saying ... the one where boys always grow up to marry someone who reminds them of their Mother? Well, if that's the case my boys are each going to bring home Big Hal the army drill sergeant.
Lately most exchanges between good self and progeny have been prefixed with;
"If I have to say it ONE MORE TIME....."
"ONNNE....TWOOOO......THR....THR....." (because by this time I've dived into a vat of moonshine and can't count past thr...)
"Where do dirty dishes live? No....not on the floor of the TV room...." (or under your bed, or next to the dog's bowl, or under the couch...)
or suffixed with....
"....right THAT'S IT!" (and they're thinking "oh yeah...that's WHAT???")
"...I'm telling your Father." (because I'm ineffectual).
"......Gahd...you kids drive me...CRAZYYYYYYY". (because I'm ineffectual and I like a bit of emotional blackmail).
or
"....you'll be the death of me." (because I like conjuring my long dead Irish ancestors, and a bit of emotional blackmail).
All the while I'm actually fantasizing about lobbying for legal suffocation.
The fact is, sigh, I'm just sick to the gills with having to remind the Things to do/or not do the same things each and every day of the year.....
Just last week, cleaning under Thing One's bed, I found a dust bunny the size of a dugong, petrified chop bones and a quivering Viet Cong.
Each morning:
"Gruntley, have you done your homework?"
"Bratley, where are your shoes?"
"Have you made your beds yet?"
"Eat your breakfast..."
"Gruntley, have you done your homework?"
"Bratley, where are your shoes?"
"Have you made your beds yet?
"Eat your breakfast..."
Eventually this discourse degenerates into...
"Gruntley...HOMEWORK."
"Bratley...SHOES."
"BEDS!"
"BREAKFAST!"
And ultimately......
"HOMEWORKSHOESBEDSBREEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKFAAAAAAAAAST!!!
By this time I am quite dextrously banging my head on the kitchen wall and setting up an intravenous drip of vodka.
After I drop them at school I head to the post office, for stamps.
I think one to each forehead and no return address will do the trick.
Then I reconsider.....
Later in the evening, after I've tripped over more Lego and stubbed my toe on Thomas The Tank Engine I quickly browse through ebay....then type:
"Two boys....aged...."
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