For most of my life I ran – nay, sprinted – away from other people’s vomit. Now, I hurtle toward all sounds of retching or a small panicked voice calling for me, with arms out and cupped hands proffered. Then I stand victorious, a warm puddle of chunks in my hands, thinking: “I am Saviour Of The Carpet! I am Queen Of Vomit Catching!” It’s entirely possible I need a hobby. Or, like, adult company.
Amy caught me intently studying a portion of my hairline in the mirror. Amy: “What are you doing?” Me: “Trying to figure out if this hair is grey, or just really blonde”. Amy: “It might be a grey hair. That means you’re getting old and will probably die soon”. Is there some proverb along the lines of “seek ye not positive affirmation and good cheer from your offspring, for they shalst make you feel like shit”? There should be.
The baby is losing the plot because she wants to “cuggle” every “moo-moo” we pass. Our four-hour road trip through Waikato farmland should just fly by.
Me: “Why aren’t you laughing at my funny song?” Amy: “Because it’s not funny, Casey.” Wow, when your four year old uses your proper name in a sentence you know you’ve overstepped the mark.
I used to use the universally accepted pain scale of “1 to stepping on a Lego with bare feet”. I move that the scale be changed to “1 to being poked hard in the eye with a tooth-paste covered toddler toothbrush”.
Yesterday Amy so badly wanted her babysitter to stay that she hid her shoes so she couldn’t leave. She’s going to be a super fun girlfriend to break up with one day.
Today the four year old is on treat lock-down as a punishment for being rude. After much protesting, flailing about and gnashing of teeth, I thought she’d finally come to accept her fate. Then: Amy: “Mummy, remember when I was running with a sharp decoration because I was so excited, and I fell over and it made a little hole in my hand and I cried and cried? And you said you felt so sad for me?” Me: “Um, are you talking about last Christmas? I think I remember…but that was seven months ago…” Amy: “Yes, it was Christmas. I still feel really sad about that. But a treat would probably make me feel a lot better about it”. #NiceTry #EnjoyYourCarrotSticks
It’s like grocery shopping with a small, noisy goat. On the upside, “holding” the shopping list keeps her passably quiet. On the downside, she generally chews/rips it and won’t give it back to me to check what’s written on it, so I always forget a bunch of stuff. With child #1, I would have worried that fellow shoppers were judging me for letting my child possibly ingest paper; but she’s the second child, so I enjoy the quiet and count it as her afternoon tea.
This morning, a banana succumbed to the firm grip of Tilly’s chubby fist, and fell out of its skin. Broken Food is completely unacceptable. She gave it a chance to “fix” itself while tearfully eating a bowl of rice bubbles. The banana did not come to the party, choosing to remain broken. A replacement banana was offered and refused. A tantrum of epic proportions followed, and couldn’t even be placated by big sisterly comfort (she’s been there, and knows the heartache that only Broken Food can cause). It is officially the end of days.#BrokenFood #TillyRage #BananasSuck #averageparentproblems #Bananagate
The Frozen birthday party was a month ago, but we are still not permitted to dispose of the (now very sad-looking) balloons.
McPikelets 