After a series of late nights – last night’s being the 40th birthday of a School Dad, “kid” themed (as he’d never had a kids birthday party), all the adults behaving like overtired, red-lollied-up kids by 10.37pm, and all the kids settled down quietly to play X-box and playstation (although was unable to determine if the killing was limited to killing each other on screen, or off as well, what with the number of siblings in attendance) – today was a Stay At Home Day.
We do these every so often. Usually to catch up and recuperate.
Several Wii challenges were had, books read, DSs played, more Wii and I had had enough of the electronics, so suggested the worst thing a mother can suggest: “Go and get a board game.”
It’s ok. I’ve managed to rid the house of all the stupid, annoying ones. Except possibly Monopoly, which has caused so much distress, boredom and frustration that it usually doesn’t get selected.
Godzilla retrieves Junior Scrabble, which I can tolerate. Barely. And we have a game, whereby his brain hasn’t quite clicked what the basic rules are and he joins words up, places them on the board any direction he feels, and makes entire words using the pieces in front of him, then gets upset when he can’t place them somewhere. Chippie grabs various tiles and scorey things and runs off with them, then throws them at the board we’re playing on.
Always good for a bit of fun.
Monkey Boy gets the ‘proper’ Scrabble out and makes up some game, which is interrupted by the onset of dinner consumption and remains lying in the middle of the lounge room floor for several hours.
There’s nothing much on TV, we’ve watched all our DVDs a bazillion times, and I like Scrabbble. The Grumpy One didn’t want to play, so I convinced myself that having a game with Monkey Boy would be all good mothery and help with his (already very good) spelling and (exceptional) imaginations. *sigh*
An over tight muscle in my left buttock, quite possibly a result of severe stress brought on by playing Junior Scrabble earlier, and the Scrabble board already on the floor, along with my yogurt mat* and half chewed bits of pasta from dinner (interesting, as we’d eaten at the table), I chose to hop down on the floor with ten year old, and stretch, play Scrabble, educate son and ignore other son who was “helping” me by touching my letters (strictly forbidden) and saying “LOOK, YOU HAVE B.U.M. BUUUUUUUUM!” All at the same time.
Multitasking at its best.
So, there we were, me laying on the yogurt mat and Monkey Boy being the only person I have encountered in my many years of experience with the game of Scrabble to have, quite legally, picked the combination of letters to spell the word F U C K. Which be, quite inevitably, insisted on pointing out. Loudly. A lot.
Chippie felt he needed to be in on the action. Meaning, between everyone and the Scrabble board. He hopped off the couch, walked around in front of me and stood on my right nipple!
The very same one he nearly removed two odd years ago.
So I said “FUUUUUUUUUUuurphnnnnnfffffffffffffffffAAAAAGH!”
Followed immediately by “GET OFFFFFFFFFFFF!”
To which he responded by turning around, but not managing to get off my boob, looking at me and losing control of the muscles in his bottom lip. Which dropped considerably.
Then, as he is wont to do, he lost control of every other muscle in his body and droppped to the floor.
But I’m onto him, as his dropping to the floor would have resulted in dropping onto the board and subsequently scattering tiles all over the place, and I manage to catch him under the arm, preventing his dramatic swoon to the ground.
Then … the cheek of him … he screamed. And looked at me as though I were the worst person in the world.
I’m sorry, but I think if there was any screaming to be done, then I’m fairly certain I had reasonable grounds for it. Definiltey more reasonable grounds than he did. And if there were any filthy looks to be given, then I had priority.
“What did you do to him?” Grumpy asks from the other side of the room, where, it appears, his reading was interrupted.
“Wha..? What did I do to him?! He stood on my NIPPLE! My nipple!”
“Well, you shouldn’t leave it lying around,” he advises and goes back to reading, whilst I, writhing in pain, upheld the toddler by his armpit to avoid Scrabble Tile Scatterage.
“Mummy?” enquires Monkey Boy “Why are you muttering “fuck” when you just said I couldn’t use it?”
Eventually convince Grumpy to take toddler, which he does by first heading to the fridge, getting Chippie’s milk and luring him away by showing him the bottle, and freeing my right nipple from the 13 kgs it had just had resting on it. Finally.
I’m reminded of the game of Uno around this time last year, when blood was drawn from my cheek, and I can’t help but wonder if I would be best served encouraging my family to take up rock climbing, or sky diving or mountain bike riding. Surely it would be less dangerous? Yes?
* “yogurt mat” is the name we lovingly call my yoga mat, after Godzilla, then aged 3, decided it would make a good place to eat his breakfast and spilt his muesli and yogurt on it. Before I even had a chance to unfurl it for myself, let alone use it *sigh*