My mother-in-law went into town to get a humidifier to help the girls’ coughs. She forgot the humidifier, and came home with Frozen tracksuits and a giant unicorn instead. Either way, they seem remarkably better.
Meanwhile, in the backseat, a silent protest was underway against the parental singalong to Elton John in the front seat. Then we sang along to Roxy Music and the protest numbers doubled.
Apparently this isn’t a messy pile of books, “it’s a sandcassel. Don’t ever put it away, ever ever”
It’s party central here! We’ve been lining up the shot glasses since before the break of dawn…to get the dregs from the medicine bottles the syringe can’t reach. And yes, that is a syringe floating in one of the bottles. I accidentally dropped it in mid-draw-up and can’t get it out, so I’ve decided to run it as an art installation.
Sure, I grew her, she emerged from my body, I’ve been puked, pooped and peed on by her…but THIS is the grossest part of parenting. The bit where they try to blow up their own balloon for a solid 20 minutes, then admit defeat and say “you blow it up for me, Mama”. *shudder* Even the cat can’t watch.
Yesterday we were standing in the supermarket checkout line behind a beautiful woman with a moko (for my non-NZ friends, a moko is a traditional Maori facial tattoo). The questions came at me thick, fast and loud from both little girls about “the lady with drawings on her face”. I explained what a moko is and then apologized to the lady in case my inquisitive children had caused offense. She assured me no offense was taken. Then I blushed a deeper red than the bottle of Pinot nestled in my shopping basket as Amy loudly announced, “MY MUM HAS A TATTOO ON HER BUM! Would you like to see it? Mum, show the lady your bum!” When I got that tattoo at 20, something told me I’d probably regret it one day (by “something” I mean “my dad”).
Why, yes, that is my child facing the wrong way and not following instructions.
Unexpected yet not entirely inaccurate satement delivered via the baby monitor at 10:27pm: “There’s too much unicorn in my bed.”
A four year old playing an untuned guitar with a cheese slice in the style of a violinist sounds exactly as bad as you’d imagine. #PointsForEnthusiasm
Me: “Tilly, time for bed” Tilly: “Ok! I’ll just get my gumboots!” It’s abundantly clear I need to introduce my two year old to the social code about how you’re better to arrive at an engagement dressed too casually vs. too flashy.