The end of an interesting week; lots of highs and lots of lows, emotions running rampant from one end of the scale to the other in the space of seconds.
And I’m not even pre-menstrual.
Grumpy Pants working this evening and at the thought of the v-e-r-y l-o-o-o-o-n-g weekend stretching ahead of us, and the fact it was just gone half past ten in the morning and I was already ready to throttle the kids, I felt the best thing to do was go out for a walk.
We’d pay off some more of Godzilla’s layby he’d organised with the early birthday grandparent cash present he received. Then spent several hours explaining to him that, no, he couldn’t actually get the thing now, but that he would pay some more off it and if he got more money for his birthday, then he would get it sooner. Or he could pay it off with his pocket money over the next few weeks. It’s a sizeable chunk we’re paying off. It won’t be long.
All he could think of was “now”.
All he could hear me say was “no”.
I resorted to foetal-positioning, yelled at all of them about shoes and left the house seven hours later, because that’s how long it takes them to put shoes on.
Off we went, up the street, having all kinds of fun conversations like “stop pushing him onto the road” and “no you can’t have a milkshake because you are being a pain in the arse, and if you ask me again I may very well push you onto the road when a car is coming” and “try me, I dare you”.
Layby payment made, running around shopping centre conducted, waiting until mummy has finally found a top she would dearly love to try on then screaming “I need to do a poo, now” performed and, finally “Can we please leave the toilets now?” request made.
I recall the desperate need I have for more foundation and mascara, and pop into the discount chemist place that is a budget-conscious chemisty-type-product-needers dream and head in there. Lots of flourescent yellow stickers and signs screaming “15% off” and “25%” off and “only $3!!” and that sort of thing. Wend my way to the makeup section, locate the foundation I think I’m after (the last stuff I bought was approximately 4 years ago and no longer exists) and proceed to check out colours and how it works on my skin tone.
The flouro yellow screamy signs send the kids into some kind of hyperactive and silly state. Of course, it’s also possible that they are school aged boys and standing in the middle of the makeup section of a discount chemist that did it. I prefer the former as the latter is just far too traumatic to think about.
There I am, Chippie safely in his pram, only able to reach out and pull various bottles of shampoo off the shelves, whilst Monkey Boy chooses the darkest colour foundation he can find, accidentally puts to much on his finger, and proceeds to smoosh it into his porceline-doll cheek. To which I can only respond by shacking my head, telling him to behave and leave it alone and take a good, hard look at himself in the mirror. He attempts to wipe it off with the palm of his hand, colouring half his face a similar shade to that of Naomi Campbell’s left bum cheek, and subsequently recolours the right bum cheek of his jeans as he cleans his hand on them.
At which point, my only response can be a mumbled “You’re a bloody idiot. Stand there with your hands on your head.” As it turns out, they didn’t have the shade I needed, so was mildy peeved at having to endure stupid 9 year old behaviour and not come away with anything.
Godzilla promptly complied with the hands on head thing, too. I noticed that, whilst I was contemplating the need for 407 varieties of mascara, and whether I needed to lengthen, define or curl my particular eyelashes, he’d tested several of the lipsticks. Directly onto his own lips.
Pushed to my limit, because 963 options for mascara is enough to do anyone’s head in, as is the fact I now have to walk home with what can only be described as Zig and Zag after their makeup artist had applied their faces after a drinking/hallucinogenic drug taking binge, I take it out on them and threaten to beat them repeatedly over the head with the $2 bottles of nail polish in vomit inducing colours. At which point we left.
But only so I wouldn’t have to endure the humilation of being asked to leave by security.
Head home via the video shop, where Chippie is let loose and does laps around the shelves, screaming excitedly at the freedom he now has.
DVDs selected and it’s off home for a quiet night …