Why do my kids take great delight, even if it is a sub
conscious one, in flinging their things around?
“Things” would be a very broad umbrella term in this instance. “Things” covers socks, underwear, food, toys,
books, blocks, Lego, papers, clothes, bits of sodden tissue, you name it, and
they’ve thrown it. Their missiles go
everywhere. Under the furniture, on the
light fittings, on window ledges, into the pancake batter, on top of and under
white goods, into and under beds, everywhere.
Then they walk away. Once it’s
out of their hands, it’s literally out of their minds. Along comes their mother with the sweeping
brush going through a mid-week cleaning crisis and the furniture gets pulled
out. The sweeping brush gathers up all
the forgotten about and abandoned Lego men, blocks, crayons, various items of
cutlery, stickers, Bakugans, trash monsters and suddenly there is a mad
scrambly panic to collect these once forgotten but now very important and
precious bits and pieces of plastic.
They are scooped up and I am given a very dirty and accusatory look
along the lines of how could you? This is mine!
And approximately five seconds
later, after the piece of broken plastic is given a cursory glance, it is
literally dropped onto the floor again.
Once they are satisfied they have rescued the toy, they are content to
lose it again. I mean, Jesus.
Another thing they love to do is calorie count for me and ensure I
get an adequate amount of daily exercise.
I counted once and they forced me up and off a chair 271 times. Like an eegit I had a cup of coffee in front
of me, and a contraband piece of chocolate.
I say contraband because treats are a rare commodity in our house now
after the Dentist Debacle. (See The
Painful Tooth of the Matter on www.seriouswagon.ie
for more details if you don’t believe me!) So that counts as exercise in my
book, and the calorie counting, well, they spied my smuggled from the kitchen
into the sitting slash dining room miserable bit of chocolate didn’t they? (Large
bag of Giant Chocolate Buttons. Nom nom!)
I flung a fistful of them into the far corner of the room in an effort to make
the Screecher Creatures hunt for them.
It worked too. For about 10
seconds. Next time I’ll do it
differently; I’ll open the back door and fek the goodies out into the long
grass. I’m bound to get at least three
minutes that way. If anyone in the
catering industry is reading I have a really good tip for you. It will get you massive brownie points from
the parents of kids in your restaurant and they’re bound to return with their
custom. Serve rock hard cement ice-cream
to the kids. It’s fool proof. I saw it happen once with our lot. As is always the case, the kids get served
first but by the time your own meal arrives the kids have finished mashing
theirs into the table and/or throwing it at each other so out of desperation
you order desert for them. On this occasion the ice-cream was particularly
solid and they dug at it with their spoons, concentration levels so deep and
intent, there wasn’t a word out of them for a good ten minutes. Bliss.
We even managed to have a small and banal conversation about the weather
or my shoes or something. I’m thinking
about trying that the next time I need a moment in the bathroom. Or a lie on.
And another thing. The following
are spectator sports: football, rugby, tennis, basketball. These are not: me taking a shower, me using the bathroom, me
having a cup of tea and a treat, me reading a book or magazine. Will someone please tell the Screecher
Creatures that? It’s not that I mind
them gawking at me when I’m in the nip. After
all I want them to know that the naked body is exactly the same as the clothed
one. Without the clothes but you know
what I mean. It’s just sometimes, I want
a little me time. A little me time for a
long time. Like more than 10
minutes. I’m pretty good at switching
off. In terms of zoning out, I
mean. I don’t think any of us ever
switch off completely. Our hibernate
button is always flashing but I like allowing my thoughts to wander. I’m pretty good at it. It’s nice to stand under the hot shower and
just look at the tiled floor. Look at it
mind, not see it because I’d be afraid a mad notion might hit me and I would
actually start to scrub it when I’m in there.
I heard about a woman doing that once.
I also like to stare out the window.
Just off into the distance in an I
wonder what’s over there kind of way when I’m having a cup of tea. When I do this, sometimes I press my
forehead to the glass. I like the
coolness of it. Except for the day I got
stuck for a brief moment to the strawberry jam.
It escapes me as well how I didn’t see it there. Although I think I previously mentioned my
kids’ penchant for chucking foodstuffs about.
It was not a definitive list and scones with jam are included. I suppose it’s inevitable really, the boys
being boys and all, that they take sadistic pleasure in hurting each other
every now and again. It pains me to say
this it really does, but they hurt me too.
It hurts when they don’t trust me! “Mammy, what are you eating?” Screecher
Creature No. 3 asked one morning. It
wasn’t quite nine o’clock and I was eating chocolate. A box of mini smarties to be exact. “Eh, toast.”
I replied, trying not to breathe on him.
He’s a bit like me and can smell chocolate through plate glass. But he is also a product of his position in
the family, in other words, there are no flies on him. “Let me see.”
He demanded, standing in front of me and opening his own mouth as wide
as he could to demonstrate what he meant.
See? He doesn’t trust me. Then there’s the “what do you want for your
breakfast?” routine. They love this
one. They really put me through my paces
with this. And before you ask, it’s
always Weetabix but they all like it different ways. One likes it hot with honey, another prefers
it cold. A teeny tiny smidgen of
chocolate spread appeals to a third and then there’s the one who eats it
literally like a biscuit. And the teeth
brushing? Again, there are preferences
for toothpaste. When it’s hitting 8pm of
an evening and I am desperate for a little peace and quiet, I would put Nutella
on the fekin brushes if it meant getting them into their beds quickly. Kids will get you marching but running around
after them is not exercise. It will tire you out all the same as will the
arguments about food. “Eat your vegetables.” “I can’t. They’re boring.” “???????
Look just eat them and stop playing with them.”
“But, they’re vegetables!” “Ohforgodsake. Here. Give them to me if you don’t want them.” And that folks, believe it or not, was a bone
fide conversation I had with Mister Husband one day. Just to clarify, he was the one refusing to
eat his greens, not me. So it’s not just
the tiddlers that test your patience and make you question your sanity, the big
ones are just as bad.
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