I am only new to this schooling caper, of course I went myself many moons ago, but I mean this being a parent of a student gig.
There’s a lot to talk about, later on I will give you the lay of the land on the School Mum Jungle, but I think I need to get something else out of my system first. It’s the most eagerly anticipated and equally dreaded part of the day.
The school pick up (dah dah daaaaah)
Each afternoon I trot up to the kinder all excited about seeing my little man, he runs to me, we embrace, it’s all smiles and giggles until..... ‘Did you bring me a snack?’ Silence. Shit.
New scene; me carrying a school bag, drink bottle, 45 pieces of paper with shit glued to them in different spots, dragging a raincoat through the puddles with a 4 year old trotting along behind squawking and jabbering about being hungry and needing something to eat now, now, Mummy I’m hungry, now Mummy.....sob sob sob ....hungry.....
It’s a similar scene at child care when I pick up the smallest wee one. She shouts ‘Mummy Mummy Mummy’ we embrace and then as we leave she will remember that she wants something I have no chance of actually supplying which results in hysteria.
Pack ‘em in the car and take off in a cloud of smoke.
I’ve often wondered if there is such a thing as a stress-o-meter, something that measures how much stress you are under and how well you are dealing with it.
Picture this - two scenarios;
1)
A mother driving a car through school pick up traffic, dodging other crazy arse mother drivers, with two kids screaming and fighting in the back, the wiggles blaring on the stereo and someone randomly kicking the back of their seat.
2)
A pilot flying some kind of F1 Eleven super jet who has to decide whether or not to drop a bomb through the fog on a densely populated area to debilitate enemy gun making factories – life or death decisions coupled with a super confusing machine to operate
Who would come out on top? Who would be handling it better?
The pilot obviously. There isn’t a 4 year old child in the back of that jet screaming about how much they hate peas and how they will never eat them for tea ever ever.
Anyway I digress, you know what would make school pick ups more palatable? Drinks. A lovely tray of cocktails greeting us at the gate. Martini Mondays. Mai Tai Tuesdays. I’m just saying. Might bring that up at the next P&F.
Next post will be a positive one I promise.
E
Ps: I never said I knew anything about aircraft types ok – I have no clue what an F1 Eleven is.....
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Nit Wit
Oh no you didn’t (dih ent?). No you did not send your kid to school with nits, do you know what that means for me? It means hours and hours of arguing and wrestling and consoling and soothing and cajoling as I attempt to get close enough to look through my son’s hair.
If I didn’t know better I would be sure that the eldest wee one had some kind of Rainman thing going on with his head. Don’t touch the head, especially without permission. More importantly, you DO NOT mess with the hair.
It’s hard enough just washing his hair with normal shampoo, through the hysterical squealing he will beg me to not cleanse it. We’ll do it tomorrow he promises. Tomorrow never comes – there’s always an excuse, unfortunately for him someone has to lay down the law and wash the playground out of that mop, it sure as hell isn’t ever Husband either. I really thought the shampoo Mohawk could calm the angriest of beasts, but not this one; it’s just not funny to him.
What am I going to do if I have to comb it all with one of those midget combs? I’m going to have to sedate him or wrap him tightly in a few towels with his head poking out the top, like you do when you want to clip a cats nails
So thank you foolish non attentive parent, I hope you can hear the ruckus tomorrow morning as I spray a fine mist of lacquer over my screaming childs head, I hope you look around and see how many kids are rubbing at their eyes because their crazed bug paranoid parents have massaged eucalyptus into their scalps........
Oh god I have to go, my head is itching like a bastard.
If I didn’t know better I would be sure that the eldest wee one had some kind of Rainman thing going on with his head. Don’t touch the head, especially without permission. More importantly, you DO NOT mess with the hair.
It’s hard enough just washing his hair with normal shampoo, through the hysterical squealing he will beg me to not cleanse it. We’ll do it tomorrow he promises. Tomorrow never comes – there’s always an excuse, unfortunately for him someone has to lay down the law and wash the playground out of that mop, it sure as hell isn’t ever Husband either. I really thought the shampoo Mohawk could calm the angriest of beasts, but not this one; it’s just not funny to him.
What am I going to do if I have to comb it all with one of those midget combs? I’m going to have to sedate him or wrap him tightly in a few towels with his head poking out the top, like you do when you want to clip a cats nails
So thank you foolish non attentive parent, I hope you can hear the ruckus tomorrow morning as I spray a fine mist of lacquer over my screaming childs head, I hope you look around and see how many kids are rubbing at their eyes because their crazed bug paranoid parents have massaged eucalyptus into their scalps........
Oh god I have to go, my head is itching like a bastard.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Mother Load.
It’s such a cliché but no one ever really tells you what you’re in for when you decide to have a baby and to be honest I don’t think I would be telling anyone either.
The baby stuff is definitely new and difficult, sorting out how to care for them and what they need. But it’s the emotional side of it that hit me like a 10 tonne Tessie. I had no idea that I could sit bolt upright awake at 2am in a panic about the fact that I wasn’t really holding onto the pram tight enough as we walked down a hill the other day and what if I had accidentally let go just as a bus drove in front of us. It really came as a shock to me that my mind could come up with all these impossible scenarios and somehow turn them into very real and plausible threats.
And then there is the guilt.
I have guilt attached to leaving my children in care as I go to work, I have guilt attached to not being able to work the full time hours my job requires, I have guilt attached to the fact that I’m not willing to change our lifestyle dramatically to ensure that I don’t have to go to work, I have guilt attached to the fact that I feel so much guilt.
I don’t think I can ever rid myself of it, I just get used to it always being there, always feeling like I’m just not quite enough for everything. Why can’t I hold it together like so many of my friends that have children? Is there something missing in my make up that means I’m just not able to cope with all the competing pressures?
The other night I was simply defeated. I picked the eldest wee one up from after school care a little after 5pm – he was sitting by himself at a table playing quietly, waiting patiently. I couldn’t hear anything the carer said to me because my heartbeat pounding in my ears and the gut wrenching guilt were too loud and my focus was on holding back the tears. We picked up the smaller wee one from child care and got home about 5.40pm.
The dog and cat were barking and meowing, I was carrying 4 bags, school jumpers, drink bottles and the mail. The wee ones fought over who got to put the key in the lock to open the door, we finally got inside, I rubbed at the red welt on my palm from all the bags (result of being made to wait for 10 minutes whilst the eldest wee one painstakingly put the key in the lock and slowly turned it....), dinner needed to be heated up, the eldest wee one was crying because his t-shirt was stuck on his head and he wanted help getting changed, the smaller wee one was crying because her molars are coming through and she just wanted to kick back and watch Peppa Pig NOW.
Feed the animals, check the dinner, get the plates out, unpack the lunch bags, wash the containers, I’ve got work on my mind and the way that makes me constantly feel inadequate, too much, too much, too much. Husband arrives home and I dissolve into tears.
Hopeless.
I went to the supermarket for some ‘me’ time, got a lot of pitying looks because I didn’t bother to check my face before I left the house. Blocthy red face and neck, puffy eyes with a hint of mascara over the cheeks. I chose not to care. It’s official, my self respect has tendered it’s resignation.
The worst part of it all, in my post melt down vagueness I accidentally gave the youngest wee one a double dose of Nurofen. After a panicked (read slightly hysterical) call to the Poison helpline we found out that it was ok and wouldn’t harm her. But I am sure I now have an ulcer, a guilt ulcer. Can guilt give you an ulcer? Well it should because I deserve it.
Today will be a better day. Next week will be a better week.
This is not a particularly funny piece, it’s a reality piece, well perhaps more a self pitying piece, because I’m sure there are people who have a lot tougher things to deal with and manage it all quite well.
I feel better for writing it and I hope if someone else is feeling like this, then maybe you will be comforted to know you are not alone.
The baby stuff is definitely new and difficult, sorting out how to care for them and what they need. But it’s the emotional side of it that hit me like a 10 tonne Tessie. I had no idea that I could sit bolt upright awake at 2am in a panic about the fact that I wasn’t really holding onto the pram tight enough as we walked down a hill the other day and what if I had accidentally let go just as a bus drove in front of us. It really came as a shock to me that my mind could come up with all these impossible scenarios and somehow turn them into very real and plausible threats.
And then there is the guilt.
I have guilt attached to leaving my children in care as I go to work, I have guilt attached to not being able to work the full time hours my job requires, I have guilt attached to the fact that I’m not willing to change our lifestyle dramatically to ensure that I don’t have to go to work, I have guilt attached to the fact that I feel so much guilt.
I don’t think I can ever rid myself of it, I just get used to it always being there, always feeling like I’m just not quite enough for everything. Why can’t I hold it together like so many of my friends that have children? Is there something missing in my make up that means I’m just not able to cope with all the competing pressures?
The other night I was simply defeated. I picked the eldest wee one up from after school care a little after 5pm – he was sitting by himself at a table playing quietly, waiting patiently. I couldn’t hear anything the carer said to me because my heartbeat pounding in my ears and the gut wrenching guilt were too loud and my focus was on holding back the tears. We picked up the smaller wee one from child care and got home about 5.40pm.
The dog and cat were barking and meowing, I was carrying 4 bags, school jumpers, drink bottles and the mail. The wee ones fought over who got to put the key in the lock to open the door, we finally got inside, I rubbed at the red welt on my palm from all the bags (result of being made to wait for 10 minutes whilst the eldest wee one painstakingly put the key in the lock and slowly turned it....), dinner needed to be heated up, the eldest wee one was crying because his t-shirt was stuck on his head and he wanted help getting changed, the smaller wee one was crying because her molars are coming through and she just wanted to kick back and watch Peppa Pig NOW.
Feed the animals, check the dinner, get the plates out, unpack the lunch bags, wash the containers, I’ve got work on my mind and the way that makes me constantly feel inadequate, too much, too much, too much. Husband arrives home and I dissolve into tears.
Hopeless.
I went to the supermarket for some ‘me’ time, got a lot of pitying looks because I didn’t bother to check my face before I left the house. Blocthy red face and neck, puffy eyes with a hint of mascara over the cheeks. I chose not to care. It’s official, my self respect has tendered it’s resignation.
The worst part of it all, in my post melt down vagueness I accidentally gave the youngest wee one a double dose of Nurofen. After a panicked (read slightly hysterical) call to the Poison helpline we found out that it was ok and wouldn’t harm her. But I am sure I now have an ulcer, a guilt ulcer. Can guilt give you an ulcer? Well it should because I deserve it.
Today will be a better day. Next week will be a better week.
This is not a particularly funny piece, it’s a reality piece, well perhaps more a self pitying piece, because I’m sure there are people who have a lot tougher things to deal with and manage it all quite well.
I feel better for writing it and I hope if someone else is feeling like this, then maybe you will be comforted to know you are not alone.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Oh my god we're 'those' parents.....
What’s the one thing that can completely ruin your awesome plans for a kiddie friendly super fun day? Your kids.
Rainy day, time for a trip to a not too far away restaurant on an old steam train. Milkshakes maybe some pancakes should be fun, yes? No, not on your fucking life.
The eldest wee one was lovely, just lovely. But the youngest turned it on like an angry bear covered in ant bites.
She was loud. I’m not 100% sure at what point noise can make glass break, but I’m pretty sure we were a few decibels away from it
She was yelling, she was screaming. Running back and forward, I tried to grab her, we banged heads, not funny. She escapes the other way. Husband goes to get her and she does that limp lay on the floor thing, complete with screaming ‘NNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO’
People are looking. People are whispering
The milkshakes we ordered arrive and the waitress says to her ‘Time to sit down, be quiet and remember that you’re in a restaurant’ Um lady we’re sitting in a fecking old train on plastic seats about to eat toasted sandwiches – this aint no restaurant honey. But I take your point about the noise levels on advisement.
I have a friend who recently confessed that she doesn’t give a flying wasabi laden chip who watches her scream at her kids in public as long as those little creatures snap to. Well I tried, I really tried to not care. I wanted to scream at the smallest wee one ‘Cut the crap with the crayons, they’re for drawing not eating’ but to be fair they had already taken half an hour with the toasted sandwiches, I was ready to eat a crayon too.
I talked sharply to her, but my parenting words were drowned out by her squealing. Very counter productive.
People are looking annoyed now, this whole eating on a train experience is being ruined for them, simply ruined.
So Husband and I took it in turns to take her outside for ‘fresh air’ – it was blowing a gale and raining, but at least it drowned the screaming out. Didn’t want to go this way, didn’t want to go that way. Wants to touch sharp and dangerous things and is quite interested in drinking from a puddle.
People are now quite obviously talking about us, tsk tsking and doing that smiley head shake between each other (wouldn’t happen in my day.... quick clip under the ear would fix that).
Finally after watching Husband chase her out of the carpark and back into the play area, in that half bent over arms out in front way with a ‘get back here’ gritted teeth facial expression on, I decided enough was bloody enough. I slammed back the remnants of my coffee, burning lips, tongue and trachea in the process;
‘Can we get that to go actually please?’
10 minutes later (yes 10 minutes, obviously hadn’t fully got through the toasted sandwich maker instruction booklet yet... toasted sandwiches?? But we only make pancakes??? What the!), everything is handed to me in a neat bag and I could practically feel the waitresses hand on my back as she directed me to the door.
I am glad that I burnt 30% of my insides with the coffee, because if it wasn’t for the pain I would have given the whole train car a serve . I really would have you know!
The tears, well I would like to say it was because of quickly formed blisters on my soft palette, but I think it was more about the embarrassment of realising I am incapable of holding my shizz together and managing a two year old in a confined space – I mean seriously how hard is it?
I felt bad for the larger wee one, we made him save half of his milkshake for when the toasted sandwiches came out and because that was right after never, he missed out on the rest of it.
20 minute car ride home in semi silence, we all refused to talk to the smaller wee one whilst she giggled - she doesn’t like trains anyway.
E
Ps: 45 minutes until wine time.......... 44m55s 44m50s 44m45s
Rainy day, time for a trip to a not too far away restaurant on an old steam train. Milkshakes maybe some pancakes should be fun, yes? No, not on your fucking life.
The eldest wee one was lovely, just lovely. But the youngest turned it on like an angry bear covered in ant bites.
She was loud. I’m not 100% sure at what point noise can make glass break, but I’m pretty sure we were a few decibels away from it
She was yelling, she was screaming. Running back and forward, I tried to grab her, we banged heads, not funny. She escapes the other way. Husband goes to get her and she does that limp lay on the floor thing, complete with screaming ‘NNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO’
People are looking. People are whispering
The milkshakes we ordered arrive and the waitress says to her ‘Time to sit down, be quiet and remember that you’re in a restaurant’ Um lady we’re sitting in a fecking old train on plastic seats about to eat toasted sandwiches – this aint no restaurant honey. But I take your point about the noise levels on advisement.
I have a friend who recently confessed that she doesn’t give a flying wasabi laden chip who watches her scream at her kids in public as long as those little creatures snap to. Well I tried, I really tried to not care. I wanted to scream at the smallest wee one ‘Cut the crap with the crayons, they’re for drawing not eating’ but to be fair they had already taken half an hour with the toasted sandwiches, I was ready to eat a crayon too.
I talked sharply to her, but my parenting words were drowned out by her squealing. Very counter productive.
People are looking annoyed now, this whole eating on a train experience is being ruined for them, simply ruined.
So Husband and I took it in turns to take her outside for ‘fresh air’ – it was blowing a gale and raining, but at least it drowned the screaming out. Didn’t want to go this way, didn’t want to go that way. Wants to touch sharp and dangerous things and is quite interested in drinking from a puddle.
People are now quite obviously talking about us, tsk tsking and doing that smiley head shake between each other (wouldn’t happen in my day.... quick clip under the ear would fix that).
Finally after watching Husband chase her out of the carpark and back into the play area, in that half bent over arms out in front way with a ‘get back here’ gritted teeth facial expression on, I decided enough was bloody enough. I slammed back the remnants of my coffee, burning lips, tongue and trachea in the process;
‘Can we get that to go actually please?’
10 minutes later (yes 10 minutes, obviously hadn’t fully got through the toasted sandwich maker instruction booklet yet... toasted sandwiches?? But we only make pancakes??? What the!), everything is handed to me in a neat bag and I could practically feel the waitresses hand on my back as she directed me to the door.
I am glad that I burnt 30% of my insides with the coffee, because if it wasn’t for the pain I would have given the whole train car a serve . I really would have you know!
The tears, well I would like to say it was because of quickly formed blisters on my soft palette, but I think it was more about the embarrassment of realising I am incapable of holding my shizz together and managing a two year old in a confined space – I mean seriously how hard is it?
I felt bad for the larger wee one, we made him save half of his milkshake for when the toasted sandwiches came out and because that was right after never, he missed out on the rest of it.
20 minute car ride home in semi silence, we all refused to talk to the smaller wee one whilst she giggled - she doesn’t like trains anyway.
E
Ps: 45 minutes until wine time.......... 44m55s 44m50s 44m45s
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