Suicide hour …..

I am probably one of the least patient mothers that have been put on this earth, but the two things that really make me doubt my sanity, and seriously wonder if I could throw myself under a train, is suicide hour and suicide hour.

The time between 5 and 7pm strikes the fear of gawd in to me.

I think if you are reading this and feel in any way like procreation, can I suggest you come and sit on the couch at mine for the 5 – 7pm shift.

The kids are tired, I am tired.

I want them to eat, get clean, pack bags, check homework, check homework list, realise I have not had the time to bake the dozen cupcakes the PTA has requested, remembered that I have totally forgotten about my 8am meeting, that all I want to do is drink 3 {large} glasses of wine, and get in to bed with an episode of Downton Abbey.

What awaits me instead is two excruciating hours of screaming, crying and hair pulling – and that is just my reaction the two-hour slot.

My kids at this point have come home from school. I have already been trapped inside a car interior with them, and the fighting, arguing, name calling and SCREAMING has been alive and well for a full hour.  I have already considered dropping them in Parow and making them walk home>

I get home – I do not climb out of the car as much as I throw myself to the safety of the floor in the garage.

I have wild fantasies of knocking myself out and being allowed to lie there and sleep for the next 2 – 3 hours.  Imagine waking up from a concussion to find your kids in bed, clean, fed, teeth brushed, and all the school things done.  Give me one of those concussions any day.

Instead, I do not get a concussion, just a graze on my chin, and then two hours of hell and a sore chin.

The hour in the car has already made me somewhat weary of my children.  I start thinking of those fucking happy mothers who are always updating their stupid Facebook Statuses on how happy Junior makes them – and they use phrases like “you complete me!”

At about this point, I have lost all patience and I have started to think awful graphic thoughts of those happy moms.

That being said the two hours does pass at some point – I have realised it does help to lubricate it with some Chenin Kak.

Lately I have realised that the two glasses of wine are a “must have” to be able to get through the “Classic Tales” bedtime story.

I am seriously starting to question the sense in all these stupid stories about the beautiful princess/pretty girl who has a prince fall in love with her at first sight.

Though for reasons of uncertainty cannot recognise her in the stark reality of daylight and needs to go around with a glass slipper to get every wench in the kingdom to try on a shoe.  She is meant to be the “most beautiful girl he has ever seen” but next day, zero recognition.

Am I the only person who finds the prince a bit of a problem?

Imagine spending all that time organising a pumpkin, six white rats and a fairy godmother to work make-up, hair and dress magic in less than 15 minutes, going to a party in glass shoes – which no matter how cute must be hellishly uncomfortable – meeting your prince, out smarting your step mother and your two ugly sisters.

Dancing all night and believing you have met your forever after.

Midnight strikes you need to dash, then as you wake the next morning to the idea of romance and ballrooms.

Your stupid Prince has not the sense to remember your name, where you live, your cell number, or what the hell you look like, so all he has to work with is finding someone to fit in your shoe – I mean seriously what the hell was he doing the entire time you were dancing with him and telling him about yourself?

Really – he remembers nothing!

After all that, the jerk’s only point of reference is the size of your foot?  I think this entire story smacks of a man with a foot fetish, and the inability to recognise people’s faces.

I think you must ask yourself, why is the prince not married before?  Why do his parents organise a dance for him to hook up?  Can this man not organise his own date – what is wrong with him that his parents need to step in for him?  Failure to launch, gay, needy, a mommy’s boy, the village idiot the result of inbreeding?  The options are pretty endless.

This entire story is fraught with problems.

I think the Prince has an undiagnosed case of Prosopagnosia – he clearly has a foot fetish and has the attention span of Dori.  If I was Cinderella I would call that Fairy Godmother back and chat to her about who else was on the market.

In the mean time, I will get back to organising my kids for a bath, and fighting with them to shovel spaghetti bolognaise in.

Sing out loud in the car even, or especially, if it embarrasses your children.

It is not that I can’t sing.

It is that I suck at singing.  I cannot hold a tune.

I sound like a very bad audition for Idols.  I am the “wooden mike” award who would actually make it on to the show, just for the laugh factor.

I have had these fantasies – yes, fantasies – that I would stand up and this voice would come out of me.  People would swoon in wonder and look at each other and smile as a tear ran down their cheek – that is the effect my “fantasy” voice would have on them.

They would murmur to each other that they have sighted the second coming.

It is all too much, it is all too much wine actually.

I can’t even hum without scaring little children.

I am not the “I can’t sing” and the then the crowd cajoles you into one last rendition of “Misery” and you bring the house to tears.

For sh*t sake, I seriously cannot sing!  I cannot carry a tune – even drunk, and often that is when people do their best work.

I actually mime “happy birthday to insert-child’s-name-here” when we go to birthday parties as I seriously cannot sing.

At my kid’s birthdays I try to look busy when it is time to sing as I do not want to scar them for life.  I usually scout the room beforehand and grab who I think is probably the loudest person and get them to start the sing along.

I make excuses about having to organise cake and candles, and well being busy-busy.

I am a little embarrassed by it.  Unfortunately since Jane Austin standing around the family piano and singing a medley has not longer been a necessity to finding a husband and being part of a social circle, there are far fewer moments where one is actually MADE to sing.

When I was at primary school I was in the choir.

I have no idea how.  It appears I have the gift of imitation on my part, or deafness and/or disinterest on the choir teacher’s part.

I found a way to sort of imitate the person next to me and follow their general sound.  I really enjoyed choir, like nerdy enjoyed.

A growing-up-scaring-moment for me, was when the choir teacher was suspicious that there was someone way off key in her little group of singers.

She let everyone sing, and then slowly “zoned” in … on me.

She cancelled out everyone and then stood in front of me and asked me to continue singing.  It was not even sad and embarrassing it was just tragic.

I had to stand there and sing all by myself as all my choir mates looked on – in horror.  Then as the chorus rose to a sort of Mariah Carey level, my voice totally disappeared.

I was so embarrassed, but carried on (the trooper I am) – even when I was doing that silent voice thing.  The part where you open your mouth and f*k all comes out.  Fond memories those.

My primary school was big on staging Operettas.

I am not sure how to explain them other than I think our headmaster had a thing for plays/dramas and writing really bad songs for school children to sing.  I am sure if he was still a head master, someone from ChildLine would have been giving him a call and raised some concerns.

I recall the teacher who was conducting the entire thing telling us that the headmaster had written them while he was in the army.  At the time we all made the obligatory “ooohhhh” and “aaahhhh” sounds, but bear in mind I was about 7.

If I knew now that a boy in the army was writing operettas, I would want to check the ruling parties policy on “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” in the armed forces.  But at 7, I thought it was very cool and manly.

Any the who.

I was in this Aladdin play/operetta/stage show extravaganza.

During practice I realized I was a better than Belinda Dennison who was cast as Aladdin’s mother.  Sure she had 25kg on me, but I could totally upstage her.  Which I preceded to do in rehearsals.

It was quite a big supporting part, and had a ton of stage time.

Then the teachers who were organizing asked me to attend an audition where they wanted me to sing the opening song with a piano accompaniment, as the part required quite a bit of acting but (sadly  for me) quite a bit of singing.

I would love to say that as soon as the piano piece started I belted out the piece to audience applause.   Unfortunately the reality is that I sucked and even at 7 I recognized that I was going down without a parachute.

I could not hit a note – any note!

Instead of my big stage moment, I got moved to the understudy’s understudy of Aladdin’s mom.   As Belinda was not going to die from Influenza on opening night it seemed I would need to be satisfied with being cast to appear on stage in part 2, scene 4 as a Chinese palace guard.

Which would have been fabulous had I not forgotten I had a mascara-chinese-moustache on 2 minutes before going on stage, and then managed to smudge it all over my face!

Fast forward thirty odd years, I still can’t sing.

Tonight Isabelle was crying.  I went to pick her up and comfort her and soothe her to sleep.

Again I was reminded of the fact that I appear to know no lullabies.

I sort of stumbled through “Hush little baby” and then fumbled through “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” After the first line I was at a total loss and sort of hummed the rest, but badly and off key.

A few nights earlier I had been called upon to sing lullabies and realized that I did not know any.

Three kids and no knowledge of lullabies, what does that say about my mothering skills and my ability to comfort my children?

I did realized that I knew “Ten Green Bottles hanging on the Wall.”

The stuff that comes to you as you rock a child to sleep in the darkness, in the middle of the night.

Easy to sing.  Words sort of flow from there, and a really simple melody that even I could not muck up.

Tonight I felt that I did not want to try a bit harder and not resort to  “Ten Green Bottles hanging on the Wall,” so I figured I would try to work my way through a Christmas carol.

I realized I knew almost all the words of “Silent Night” and sung that as a lullaby.

Even I could hear that my voice was shockingly off key, I also did not know the words just after “all is calm, all is bright” and sort had to muddled my way through that.

I totally suck at lullabies, but Isabelle rested her head against my chest, put her thumb in her mouth and her eyelids got heavy as I tickled her back and totally massacred “Silent Night.”