Too Cool for Parenting School

So I am starting my Parent to Parent Support course in the morning.  There will be coffee on arrival. Lovely grown-up conversation interspersed with fun and craic for 8 hours.  I feel like I am going on a mini holiday for those few hours.

I won’t have to wipe anyone's arse (I hope), cut up food, scoop poop, or get into cold blue water for 40 minutes.

Oh, I could go on. And on. And on.

Actually, the swimming thing I will be sorry to miss out on as it is going to be the maiden voyage of some serious wetsuit try outs.  I wouldn’t mind being there for that but I have been looking forward to this course since before Christmas. 

It’s not like I had a bad week or anything but every time something pesky happened, I took a deep breath and reminded myself of the treat ahead. 

Sometimes that worked and sometimes it didn’t.

For example, it didn’t work when the Brothers Grimm went at it again.  What happens when a 5 year old fist meets the face of a 7 year old?  Blood, that’s what.  Lots of it.  And before 7am.    Dear god in heaven I was dreading the teenage years but now I am downright afraid of them. 

If anyone has David Coleman and/or Steve Biddulph on speed dial, I’d be mighty thankful for their assistance.

Speaking of blood, our lovely lady dog Juno was neutered last Friday and not only was she totally traumatised after it all, she came home wearing a large plastic collar. 

Those things are dangerous!  The backs of my legs are in bits from her bumping into me and last evening, Liam somehow, managed to get his chops around it and began another blood bath.  Monday can’t come quick enough for its removal. 

On top of that, there’s a dead mouse in my house.  What am I gonna do?  At first I thought it was stagnant water in the bathroom upstairs.  Nope.  But I still scrubbed and cleaned and bleached.

Twenty four hours later the stench was meeting me halfway up the stairs.  I was holding my breath before I reached the landing.  Definitely a little rotting corpse in the bathroom.   

Probably under the bath.

Little bastard.

A bit of useless (disgusting) information for you now; mice are teeny tiny little creatures.  When they die and decompose they literally turn to fluff.    For such a tiny little body, the smell is unreal. 

I had this problem in the kitchen last summer.  Every time I approached the cooker my nose was assaulted. 

The hoover was the chief mourner at that funeral.

I have no idea what I am going to do this time.  The house smells of Lemongrass and occasionally Bergamot – essential oils in the burner on the stairs in an attempt to override the smell.

Between the dead mouse and the dog, tomorrow morning can’t come quick enough.

But first I have to figure out where to go.  I have a map.  I have my phone.  I have a contact number with instructions from The Teacher to ring her if any of us (me!!!) gets lost.

I will be a walking neon beacon for muggers on Saturday morning – looking like the true culchie that I am, let loose in the big city after a sojourn of a few years.

I am going to wear my t-shirt that says “I don’t have any money – I have kids” on the front.  And on the back it will read “You don’t scare me – I have kids.”  That should do nicely I reckon. 

My bag is packed and all ready to go.  I keep checking it.  But it’s just to make sure one of the kids haven’t crawled inside.