I’ve decided to walk you through a period of time in my house. This is being written in real time as I sit here, just the words that are coming to my head no preconceived ideas.
I’m trying to write this as all 3 kids are running around, the eldest is shouting down random comments from the bathroom about what he’s doing, the middle one is pulling my refrigerator apart looking for meat he wants to grind up in to dog treats to sell to the neighbours and the youngest is head first in my handbag repeatedly chanting ‘candy, candy,candy.’
I am going to keep a tally of how many times they utter the word mummy in the time it takes me to write this. I’ve only done 3 paragraphs and we are up to 7. I would love to change my name to something really embarrassing for them to say, that way they would really have to think twice before using it in public. Maybe I should call myself pantie.
Oh jeez that’s an awful word isn’t it? Pantie? It makes me cringe. Why would that even come out of my brain? More to the point, what are you in for here? Reading the nonsense that comes out of there, unfiltered and exactly as it’s flowing on to the page. I’m a sick little puppy. I just hide it well under an incredibly thin veneer of respectability.
That could be my Halloween costume this year, I should wear a twin set, flat shoes and carry a clip board and go as a respectable Home and School member parent. For me, personally, that’s terrifying! Of course I fully respect our school rely on these parents and I think you do an amazing job but really, seriously, you don’t want me. I will tune out in the middle of your meeting, I will doodle strange random doodles on my notes, most likely flowers and penises, I will perfect the art of looking like I’m totally listening to what you are saying whilst secretly singing Sweet Home Alabama in my head and dreaming about exactly what I would do to the Winchester brothers given even a tiny chance. The at the end when you asked me if I was ok to do the job you had asked of me I would smile and nod and look happy until I got to my car where I would curse to myself over and over desperately trying to remember even a tiny fraction of the words you just said.
Mummy count 15.
Make that 17.
Children update, one is still in the bathroom, one is sat on the sofa looking out of the window in a serious mood because I have refused to allow him to grind up $15 worth of meat and the other is on one of those round bouncy ball things with a handle, bouncing around the table I’m sat at and has changed his candy chant to mummy.
I’m eyeing up a bottle of wine I know I have in the fridge.
We’ve just come from an indoor garage sale which is where we purchased the bouncy thing. It all sounded great in theory. Go along, let the kids decorate a Halloween cookie, take a wander through the haunted house, look at the items for sale and hope for a bargain.
Mummy count 28
In theory it was hell. Hot sweaty corridors full of people all shoving to get past you. Garage sale items that were old fashioned when my grandmother owned them, activities we paid for but then when we got there were unsupervised and not even available in some cases. Having to kick people in the shins because my last nerve had gone and the next person who pushed my 4yr old was, frankly, going to get a knee somewhere they really didn’t want. Then there was the ‘artisan’ room. Please don’t get me wrong, there were some beautiful homemade crafts there, perfect shiny jewellery, homemade soaps in pretty little presentation cases and adorable place mats with characters on for the kids.
Then there were the other crafts, teapots randomly hung on a piece of string, book marks with so much lace glued around the edges I started to wonder if there had been some kind of horrible glue gun accident where she had tried to stop but was compelled to keep going until the glue finally ran out and she was only then able to break it away. Terrifying wind charms with children’s faces painted on to them that would not only let you know it was windy but haunt your dreams every night as all you saw was that face swinging backwards and forwards and jingling. Always jingling. Shudder. Pintrest, you have a lot to answer for.
Mummy count 36.
Children update, one is plugged in to his phone. The other talking to me about video games and tying to argue the point of exactly why he should have a new one, after all it’s been a whole 4 days since he bought the last one. His argument mainly consists of these words “But Mummmmmmyyyyyyyy, it’s not fair.” My reply out loud is far more polite than the one in head that is running alongside this little monologue you are being treated to. Third and youngest child has taken grapes from the fridge and is gnawing them, much like a rat, in the middle of the room hissing at people as they walk by.
I have just given them all permission to play video games for an hour. This means they are now arguing about which video game they will play. The elder children think it’s grossly unfair they can’t play something to do with zombies whilst the youngest is around and the youngest will randomly pick a sibling he wants to play Sonic the Hedgehog with while they object that it’s not ‘cool’ enough, in a power battle to show he is the boss and he will lavish the chosen one with affection until the other gets jealous and he will switch. He is going to make a great Dictator.
Mummy count, I have no idea, I gave up listening after the battle to buy a video game and started thinking about those Winchester
brothers again. Thank you Sam and Dean.
There is screaming coming from the other room as they fight over controllers, I’m fairly certain a cat has pooed somewhere nearby, the bread for lunch has gone mouldy and I’m left here wondering, is it just us? Does everybody else spend their weekends in some kind of family bliss? Long happy family walks in the woods laughing and heading home for perfectly cooked meals, hot chocolate and movies snuggled on the sofa. You know how that would go for us?
A long walk in the wood would turn in to an argument, the middle boy would start to complain his legs hurt, the eldest would chase him with some kind of poo he found on a stick, the youngest would start to cry and I would have to carry him the rest of the way. We would get back to the car with the elder 2 bickering, my back numb and the husband with a grim look of determination. Once we got home I would realise I totally forgot to put anything on for dinner or even take something out of the freezer, there isn’t enough milk for hot chocolate and the marshmallows I thought we had in the cupboard were like little rocks. We would order pizza then I would suggest a movie. The kids would spend up to an hour fighting over which one to watch until I would snap and choose one everybody hated and we would resent watching all the way through while everybody complained that so and so was sitting in their chair and they were there first while so and so would cite the 3 second rule as to why exactly they now owned the chair. Until we all get tired and go to bed, grumpy and full of bad pizza. Please, tell me we aren’t alone here. I sometimes feel I am swimming in a sea of bad parenting.
Mummy count, too many and they are being screamed from another room now so they don’t even count.
This stream of conscious writing does lead to some weird places doesn’t it! I will leave you now as my stomach is growling and I need to go and raid the cupboards for something over than mouldy bread and soft crackers. I’m thinking a nice lump of cheese on a stick and some ketchup to dip. I’m also thinking I should really go grocery shopping.
Final Mummy count. It doesn’t matter. There is wine out there somewhere.