Diary of a Mad Cow

Arrive home before rest of family, quite unexpectedly.

See, they always have fun without me. I wanna have fun too!

Friend of Monkey Boy’s rang wanting to speak with him.

“Can I speak to Monkey Boy?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Why not? I said please.”

“Coz he’s not home.”

Some kids just have no sense of humour. I could have carried it on, but there’s no fun in it when they’re like that.

Eventually they arrive home and tell me allllllll about it.

“So, how was it? What did you do? Did you have fun?”

“Yep.”

“Sooooo. What did you do?”

“Nuthin’”

Right. Good weekend then. Now I really wish I’d gone. Then I would at least have known what they did and how much fun they have.

Then I see Monkey Boy’s face, and the great big swelling on his lip.

Argh!

See. I should have gone. I should have been there.

“What happened?!”

“I fell off the top bunk.”

Oh, man, I really should have been there!

“Yeah, I was trying to climb down head first and Godzilla was trying to push me back up and I fell and banged my mouth on the floor.”

Hmmm, probably shouldn’t have been there. Don’t know that my pelvic floor would have coped with that much laughig.

Up earlyish, caffeienned and off to the conference, remembering to pack for tonight’s cocktail mingler thing and for overnight.

And tomorrow’s full day, as well.

Lots of meeting and greeting, networking and socialising, sitting and listening, taking notes and asking questions. LOTS to take in and digest.

And that was just lunch. The conference itself had a lot to offer, too.

So much that by the end of the day my brain felt like it was about to explode. Gotta love the reverse however - rather than having to think up valid explanations as to how aeroplanes stay in the sky (and by valid, I mean according to five year old criteria, which is somewhat distant from that of an aviation type person), I was being fed information. And only needed to expand my brain enough to encompass the reasonably doable.

A huge relief.

Still, by the end of the day, I was exhausted. I head back to my hotel room, had a nice bath … what? what’s that noise? Nothing? How can there be silence? Argh! Now I’m scared … put on some comfy clothes (read: jarmies) and sat on the bed to read for a bit. Still had two hours before the cocktail party.

But my eyes kept trying to close. I was going to fall asleep at this rate. Hmmm, room service. Good excuse to order some. That, and I am a bit peckish. And I don’t have to share. And I can sit on the bed and eat it.

So I ordered.

Good thing really, because the knock at the door woke me up. ‘course, it wasn’t till I answered that I realised my ‘comfy’ clothes aren’t all that comfy; my jarmie pants sitting below my bulge and jarmie top resting just above my belly button.

*sigh*

Ah well, better squeeze into my frock for the evening …. right after I just indulge in these chips I don’t have to share!

Monkey Boy, with his Gordon Ramsay fascination and ability to get over feeling bad really quick (grumble, gurmble) decided that he really wanted to go to holiday program again today.

Because they were making pasta. Not just cooking it, but actually making it.

*sigh* How could I deprive him of the pleasure.

Of course, I had to keep that fact hidden from the Grumpy One, who quite likely would have had a conniption had he know that Monkey Boy was going to be doing anything remotely like Cheffing. And fun.

(He has still to learn that the best way to ensure your kids will do something you don’t want them to do, is to make a big thing about them not doing it. He’ll learn one day.)

But, of course, a spanner is thrown in the works. I’m at a conference all weekend, and staying (yippee) at a hotel tomorrow night. All. By. My. Self!

Hooray.

So, the Grumpy one figures if I’m not gonna be home, they might as well go off and have some fun without me.

More grumble grumble. It’s not fair. How come they always do the fun stuff when I can’t?

So negotiations were made and timetables scheduled to ensure maximum particpation in holiday program and Chef type activities, and getting to ‘holiday’ destination in time for fish and chips for dinner.

(Fine, I’ll just eat my good chocolate ice-cream for dinner. So, ner!)

Of course, they ring when they get there. Like I care at this point. And get the ins and outs of what they’re up to.

“Yeah, we got here ok, just about to go have dinner.”

“Yup, it’s cool. Godzilla is doing a poo!”

“Hello, mummy. I love you. I just did a poo on the toilet. And is good. Is different to our house. It has a two headed bunker bed. And one pair of toilet paper in the cupboard. And it has a stove that can cook. And a two headed oven. One oven is a tiny one and the other one is a big one with a big window on it. And it has a drawer. And it has a yellow carrot peeler and a very sharp knife. And Monkey Boy is doing a wee in the toilet. And he is nearly putting his jacket on. And I love you mummy. Bye”

Click.

Hmmm. Maybe, after that commentary, I didn’t really need to be there at all.

Godzilla doesn’t quite have the sense of humour the rest of the family have.

Recently, on telling a friend that Monkey Boy had hurt his toe, resulting in blood, she enquired of Monkey Boy as to whether he requried the services of a “toe” truck.

Monkey Boy, with his sense of humour, looked at me, rolled his eyes and we both agreed that it was, in fact, hilarious we just weren’t laughing because … well, because it was, in fact a crap joke and not funny at all.

We had our quite little private chuckle.

Godzilla, on the other hand, was quite taken aback. He sat up in his chair, looked at friend like she was a complete idiot and informed her, very seriously that “Tow trucks take cars. Not toes!!”

(Grumpy, on the other hand, I’m sure, was mentally recording “joke” for future use, no doubt so he can repeat it incessantly and think he’s funny. Note to self: Buy kids steel capped boots so they can’t bang their toes on anything!)

 Unable to contain my need for a good laugh, I jumped onto MSN when I got home to have a chat with a few friends I know can lift my spirits. And tell funny jokes.

Of course, it errupted into an emoticon frenzy with all kinds of emoticons being transmit, ultimately ending in the bottom of a gorgeous man being sent (well, actually, have no idea if he was gorgeous or not - but his bottom was).

Inevitably, this display of buffed buttocks appeared on my screen just as Godzilla - flasher of all things private, asker of “do you want to see my penis” and performer of the Wobbly Doodle Dance - walks in.

He glances at my computer screen. His jaw drops and his eyes widen. Awaiting a demonstration of the five year old version of what is going on on the screen, I’m surprised to hear him speak.

“How heaven to pee rude!” he informs me and stomps out of the room.

Dropped an apprehensive little boy off at holiday program this morning.

I’d managed to deal with most of the guilt from last week, but had another layer to deal with as Monkey Boy asked me to stay, and felt weird not knowing anyone there today.

“Can you please pick me up early today?”

I said I’d see what I could do, extracted myself some 23 minutes later and sat in the car and cried.

I felt so sad for him. I just want my little boy to feel safe and secure. And, most importantly, to feel included and have fun.

I made it home, and sat in front of my desk, feeling sad and not being able to work as well as I would have liked. I asked Grumpy to take Godzilla to the program centre and take the two boys for a swim (I still had to contend with the guilt of not doing my work - so just compromised as best I could). Besides, they’d be home in time for dinner. I’d see them all soon enough. And they’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

Or so I convinced myself in order to be able to function for the remainder of the day.

Off Grumpy Pants and Godzilla went to do a few things before heading to the pool. A phone call came through from a school friend, so I passed on Grumpy’s mobile number so they could tee up a catch up at some point.

Mildly relieved, but still feeling relatively awful from guilt, I managed to fumble my way through my to do list. At least until I remebered that dinner needed preparing and that was enough to disctract me from guilt and work.

I commence the task and the phone rings. It’s Grumpy. Monkey Boy has organised a sleepover at his friend’s house. Right. When? Tonight.

They rush in the door, whirlwind around the house packing jarmies and blankets and dogs and vanish again. Godzilla, just before the car pulls away, puts on one of his Dramatic Acts, tears included. More whirlwind action and both my little boys are taken away from me for the evening.

But … WHAT ABOUT ME!? I want to run up the street yelling at them.

Do they have any idea of what my day has been like?!

Bloody kids!

Ah, well. We’ll just go see a movie without them then. So, ner.

Planned a catch up with a friend from school and her kids. A trip to the zoo was in order.

My kids had obviously done some serious praying overnight, or the gods were just as embarrassed by the Overall Wearing Fiasco of yesterday, that a bucketing of rain occurred all morning and the plans were called off.

So my friend, kids in tow, came for lunch at our place instead.

(No less embarrassing from my perspective, except for the fact that regardless of what I wear, I look like a complete knob, so don’t really care. Or about the state of my house, either. They wanna bend down and pick stuff up, who am I to stop them, so long as they don’t expect the same from me.)

Of course, the sun came out shortly after they arrived at my ill-prepared-for-guests-abode, by which time the kids had all found the trains and weren’t going to move for any elephant - or elephant-sized people.

Monkey Boy, bored with the “little kids” embarked upon some artwork, after locating an image of Gordon Ramsay in today’s paper. He neatly chopped it out and stuck it, proudly, on his bedroom wall.

Aww. Cute. Could think of much better poster boys for a seven year old than Gordon. Especially food critic wannabe seven year old boys.

Deciding the picture needed something to go around it, he decided a quote would be the way to go. So off he went to write a quote to go with his cut out. I’m so proud of him, surrounding himself with inspirational people and quotes. He really is old beyond his years.

And so clever!

He carefully carries the bequoted paper into his room, and positions it (with the last of my blue tak) on the wall next to his idol.

“That’s a f…… good taste!” adorns the paper.

“But, Mum, I didn’t write the whole word! I used dots! And anyway, that’s what I think Gordon Ramsay would say if he was a food critic!!”

Hmm. He does make a point.

Grumpy and frustrated with my expanding girth, and psyching myself up for a trip into the City, in the cold, with the kids to meet up with friends, I resorted to my “old” stock of maternity gear.

The stuff that I purchased when preggers with Monkey Boy, which is now 8 years old. And designed to deal with a Spring/Summer pregnant woman. Not a freezing blood Melbourne one!

I popped on the old overalls - too grumpy to really care what I looked like. I had nothing else that fit.

And I’d run out of Emotional Eating Chocolate (the 70% or more cocoa dark chocolate. What other kind is there?)

On they went, with layers of long sleeve tops, knee high warm socks and my boots, and I return to the kitchen to do a bit of “Get Dressed NOW!” type discussion.

“Oh.” says Monkey Boy, pointing at me. “That’s bad.”

“What is?”

“That,” he says, pointing agian. “That’s really bad.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s just really bad.”

“Well. I don’t care, I didn’t buy myself new clothes when I went shopping, only you. And you have to walk near me, so … ner!”

“No way. No I’m not. I’m gonna find someone else to walk with. I’ll walk behind you so I can see where you’re going. But I’m gonna walk with someone else.”

Nice.

So, as soon as we get home, and just to make him feel better, I took them off and put my jarmies on. Along with my slippers (I really need to get fluffy boots for Winter), and sorted all my posting that needed doing.

Hmmmm. But am in my jarmies and slippers. So I very politely ask Monkey Boy to go across the road and post my letters for me.

No doing .. apparently it was payback. He suggested I do it.

In my jarmies and slippers.

A little bit of bribery goes a long way … the payback was paid back.

I made him come with me!

Ah, love.

It’s rife in our house at the moment. Much more of it and I may just very well explode as a result of the sheer abundance of it …

I awoke this morning, very tired. As is to be expected. Given that the Sleep Prevention Squad have moved back in with their snoring and complaints about being kicked in the back.

I made several, serious attempts to drag myself out of bed. I even ignored the voices in my head, screaming “Don’t make me get up!”. But I kept flopping back in again.

*sigh*

If I don’t get up myself, I will never get my coffee. The overarching incentive. The MUG of coffee.

“Where are you going?”

“Get coffee.”

“Oooh, can you bring mine back to bed.”

“No. Not my job. Need coffee.”

“What is your job?!”

“Right now, I’m an incubator. And I’m very, very tired.”

“An incubator is just a warm box with a light on. You’ll be right.”

“Hmm, thanks.”

Of course, the love and empathy continued …. apparently my light is only on sometimes, and my box is pretty hot when it wants to be.

Thanks, that made me feel so much better.

So, along with MUG, I locked myself (Ok, didn’t lock, I can’t close the door due to the crap infront of it) in my office and set about tidying it.

All the while, Brotherly Love was in full swing in the form of wrestles, “Don’t touch that’s”, “You’re not listening to me and doing what I SAY’s”, and wooden trains launched at heads.

That lasted several hours before there were tears. Ok, it lasted several micro-seconds before there were tears, but hours before there were real tears.

And blood.

I race out, Godzilla runs up to me, lip bleeding and advising me he was “kicked in da mouf”.

(Daddy was “otherwise occupied”, despite being onlyl 2 foot from the scene!)

I look questioningly at Monkey Boy. He replied …. very Simpsonesque …

“He did it. It’s his fault. He jumped on me. I just lifted me knee up when he jumped on me and he ran into me. It’s not my fault.”

I gave Mokey Boy another sort of look.

An ice-cube later, Godzilla was up, running around, laughing and chasing Monkey Boy, who promptly ran down the stairs onto the lawn, kicking his toe on the bluestone garden edging.

(Of course, my suggsetions that running around in a pyjama top and undies went completely unheeded)

He stopped. Looked at me. Held his toe and hopped around a bit. Looked down. Looked up again and said “Um, there’s blood.”

“Ha ha,” says Godzilla, pointing at his brother. “You learn a less-on!” and ran away.

Ah, yes, a whole lotta love!

Course, it didn’t stop there either. I sit Monkey Boy on the sink to wash his toe, reach into the way overhead cupboard to reach the bandaids, only to have a precariously placed torch fall forward, knocking boxes of bandaids, bottles of children’s Panadol and medicine measuring cups onto me. I’m standing, hands up, preventing an avalanche of first aid supplies from landing on my head, yelling loudly “COME HERE AND HELP ME NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Hang on!” comes Grumpy’s reply.

From 2 foot behind me ….

Apparently, lying is a sign of intellegence.

Or so I read somewhere.

And Godzilla has reached that stage with a vengence. Oh, he’s done the lying before, “I didn’t do it” sort of thing.

The favourite, to date, was when my slice of toast went missing, and, he being the only other person in the room, I questioned him on it.

“I did’ do it. It was daddy!”

“Um, I don’t think so.”

“Well, well, well … he has a fat tummy so it must of been him!”

Hmmm, you make an excellent point.

But this time, he assures me he isn’t lying at all. And he is adamant!

“How did the bathroom floor get wet? And the mirror? And the walls? And the …. how did the whole room get this wet!?!?!?!?!!?”

“I don’ know.”

“You were just in the bath. You haven’t left the room. It wasn’t like this when I came in before. How did you do it?”

“I don’ know. It was the Toof Fairies!”

The interrogation, including all logical argument from my side, continued for another 17 minutes.

And still he wouldn’t budge. It was those Tooth Fairies.

Damn them!

Monkey Boy has decided that he wants to call the baby “Confucious”.

This, of course, is totally against Godzilla’s preference of “Chippie”, the current pet name for the baby. Convincing him that the baby will, of course, have a “real” name upon its arrival on the planet is just not an option.

So, Monkey Boy declared that the baby will be called “Confucious”.

Which set the Grumpy one off onto a tangent, trying to think of Confucious sayings. Unlike him, really. But he was insisting he knew a really good saying, very profound, but couldn’t remember it.

So he thought …

.. and he thought …

… and he thought …

And, light bulb went off, “I have it!” he declared. “It’s a really good one.”

Man who put stiffy in box not necessarily an undertaker

 Hmm, dilemma solved. I now no longer have to attempt to convince Monkey Boy why we’re not having the name “Confucious”.

Instead, I have a much more pressing issue to deal with - do I ignore the “What does that mean, Mummy?”, leave it to Grumpy to explain, or explain it myself ….

I think, yes, I’ll do that.

Now, where is the chilled chardy, and is 8.32am to early for one?