My kids are pushing me to where I am considering opening a bottle of wine before going to work in the morning ….
It is the constant fighting and the bitching about nothing that is doing my head in. One stupid argument at a time.
I can deal with three kids (albeit if only some of the time).
I can deal with one kid crapping in their pants, one kid messing glue and cellotape all over the house and the other kid lying on the couch playing DS when he is in his jammies at 2pm and has not brushed his teeth.
I can deal with all of that.
I cannot deal with them fighting about sh&t!
We can say that because I am in a bit of a depressive episode, everything pisses me off. Yes we can say that, but kids fighting pisses me off whether I need medication or not.
This morning was a bit of a rush, with the usual morning stuff.
I especially enjoyed the part where I told Georgia more than six times to get dressed – I was in her room sitting on her bed watching her not listen to me.
The only reason she did not get a slap across the back of her head was because it was her birthday. (And because child services regularly reads this blog). Now even that I take with a sigh, and a pinch of “she will grow up out of it …..maybe”
Eventually I gave up and sat and dressed her myself, but that was fine.
I put breakfast out for Connor and Georgia.
Both kids decide they did not want milk in their cereal and wanted to eat it dry. No worries, I put the milk in a cup.
I have no problem with them eating their cereal and milk separately – I figure it will get mixed in their tummies.
As long as I do not have to listen to them crunching dry cereal in my ear, then we are all a-ok in my book with what ever method they want to go about taking in their cereal and calcium. It is fine, really, fine!
I head to have a shower and sort myself out.
I issue firm instructions for them to finish breakfast and to go and brush teeth.
Georgia gets a special instruction not to mess toothpaste on herself. It is not uncommon for me to have to change her shirt and wash her face, and parts of her hair after a tooth brushing exercise.
I am in the shower and it sounds like two small kids throwing their combined body weight against the door – well, because that is exactly what they were doing.
I get out the shower, open the door, in a rather aggressive and very frustrated manner.
Me still dripping wet, with clumps of conditioner adhered to my congealed locks and scream “WHAT now? What crap are you two fighting about NOW!” (my good mother skills have been a bit absent as of late)
I said something of that ilk at any rate.
I had conditioner spilling down my face and dripping into my right eye. I also did not grab a towel, so both kids were exposed to the full fright of an overweight full-grown woman-who-has-not-seen-sun-in-about-five-years with a recent brazilian wax!
Suffice to say, they will be thinking twice before interrupting me in the shower again (and the university fund has now been flagged for their future therapy fund).
Connor tells me that Georgia spat on his sleeve.
I have seen Georgia spit, that girl gets absolutely no range. The logical assumption was that his sleeve would have had to be trying to cover her mouth – and she simply dribbled on him – though, granted with gusto.
I scream at both of them.
I warn them that they had better get sorted and go and finish showering – I am effing and blinding under my breath at this point. Slam bathroom door and nearly slip on my recently waxed arse as I make my way back to the shower (as I have left water puddles all the way through the bathroom….)
I get out the shower for the second time – sort of shampoo free at this point.
I think, you know what ever is in my hair can stay in, really I have lost any dignity I might have possessed anyway. I am so far past caring about my personal appearance right now, it is all a bit alarming.
Isabelle is crying, I fetch her, change her bum, get her a warm milk bottle, lie her down, and then attempt to find clothing to get dressed in for work.
I am trying to get dressed, I know Georgia is in the 15th minute of brushing her teeth – which means that odds are she has not actually got the brush into her mouth at this point.
I hear a scream and shouting.
I look towards the heavens for help and strength, and nothing is forth coming.
I squeeze into my now-too-tight-granny panties.
Georgia comes into the room and is screaming as she has toothpaste across the front of her pink jacket.
I notice the partial remaining lump of toothpaste on her toothbrush which still has not made it into her mouth, and decide to let that issue pass.
Connor is behind her defending himself at a rate of 350 words per minute and at a very loud pitch – which only tells me he has done something very wrong and by speaking loud and fast he hopes he will be able to drown out any sense or the possibility of me arguing back.
I assess the situation.
And the facts are:
Connor has taken his bathrobe belt and has gone into the bathroom where his sister is trying to brush her teeth (or not in this case), has stood and spun the robe belt around – clearly hitting everything in the range of the belt – including his sister, the toothpaste and the toothbrush.
There is toothpaste splattered everywhere – including on his sister and her jacket.
God’s truth – seriously!!!
I know there is the old adage about not being sent more than you can deal with. Here is an announcement: I have more than I can deal with. Stop sending me trials and tribulations!!! Really.
I mean where and why does my son think this is a great idea – he is meant to be really bright. We just saw his report card, he scored well.
Of course I go off like a cyclone! No TV, no DS, no electricity for the day, gone! Everything. I might have insinuated he will sleep in the kennel outside as well, but don’t quote me on that one.
I get in the car and I ask Connor if there was another room in the house that he could have gone to stand and swing his bathrobe cord around – because clearly he had an itch that had to be attended to, and who am I to stand in the way of a young boy who is dabbling in experiments with his grey bath robe?
He said sure, but he did not realize he would hit Georgia.
Really – in a bathroom, swinging a cord that is probably about 1 metre long off the end of your outstretched arm – you did not imagine this would hit your sister?
No, he says.
I say really? (dripping in sarcasm)
He goes, no really!
I challenge him.
Tonight we go into the bathroom and I swing the cord around, I will bend my arm, to counter the size difference between him and I. He can stand by the basin, and if I hit him with the cord, he loses a DS/Television day each time I make contact. We can keep it up for 5 minutes and see how it fares.
Anyway then I went on a full-fledged saliva-spurting non-sensical mother-driving-wildly-whilst-gesticulating rant and lament about this constant fighting between them.
I really hoped I hit it home this morning, because I am really over did it a bit.
I indicated that soon I was going to start implementing my “all for one” theory of punishment.
If one person misbehaves and starts antagonizing the other and I walk into the scene and there is “he did this …” “she did that…. “ going on, then they both get punished as I am officially over refereeing this lot.
Dear Villlage Chief
I know it takes a village to raise a child, but for fk sake can someone from the village come over from 06h00 – 08h00 and then from 16h00 – 19h30 and show me how it is done?
Yours in hope