I took a glance at Godzilla’s shoes.
They are in dire need of replacing. A sheet of cardboard and a rubber band or two would be a better alternative than what he’s wearing now.
I swear, along with numerous other items, shoes don’t last anywhere near as long as they did when I was a kid.
I perform some half arsed “Come on, you lot, get organised! I want to go!”
I do it half arsed because lately there has been little point in putting much more of an effort into it. I only get ignored anyway.
I have a few stern words to Grumpy Pants about the likelihood of him loaning a hand, or a loud voice, in order to get out of the house. Godzilla has been nagging me all morning to get the now (hopefully) functioning hand-me-down PC set up. I have already stated that if he shuts the fuck up and stops being obstructive and never, ever, ever asks me again, I will do it upon our return from purchasing shoes for him!
My delusion is that Grumpy Pants will set an example which Godzilla may follow, in terms of getting arse into gear and getting out of house.
Grumpy Pants goes for a shower.
I tick a thing off my list, eat, mutter some more words about please, please, please get organised so we can go.
Monkey Boy runs past, followed by a Nerf gun bullet, and yelling at me about having his confiscated gun back.
What. The. Fuck?! I think to myself.
I turn to see where the previously mentioned bullet has come from.
Grumpy Pants is hiding behind the open front door, gun aimed at the rapidly departing Monkey Boy. He is naked. This is not getting us out the door any time soon.
I set up an Instagram account, because I’ve been meaning to for some time now.
The Instagram and Naked Nerf Gun thing are not related in any way, but I am now tempted to ensure they are inextricably linked.
Finally, finally everyone is clothed and we may leave.
We return the broken-after-three-days school bag purchased for Monkey Boy. We head to the shoe shop where there is much fucking about, disappearing when the Shoe Lady heads off to find the size we want, because, despite the vast number of sizes available in a variety of shoes, the size we want is just not on the shelf.
Have mild meltdown when discover Godzilla may need to consider heading into the men’s sizes.
Godzilla asks if I can set the computer up for him when we return home.
“I’m not entirely sure we’re actually going to get home, the rate we’re going,” I reply in a high pitched, teeth gritted kind of voice.
I am starting to lose my shit.
Chippie is rolling on the floor, demanding a pair of Thomas sandals in a toddler size, three sizes smaller than his own feet. Monkey Boy is “bored” and takes it upon himself to entertain Chippie by pretending to stand on him in the middle of the shoe shop.
I find a pair of shoes I quite like, but they are in the children’s size. I try a pair on anyway. They fit me. I buy them.
Upon our return home, I place my hand over Godzilla’s mouth so he is unable to start up his “Can you do the computer now?” and inform him he is not to speak to me, look at me or even think about me.
I set to work, plugging it all in. It is at this time a tragedy of immense proportions strikes.
“NOOOOO!” I hear Monkey Boy yell.
“GET HIM AWAY FROM THERE!” he continues.
Chippie, it seems, has placed a wooden Thomas the Tank Engine onto the LEGO train tracks.
Which is when the world caved in, and the air was rent with the sound of the most heart breaking keening.
I cannot believe someone, even a four year old, would stoop so low as to mix his trains.
It was horrific.
So I sent Monkey Boy along to parkour with Grumpy as his chauffeur so I may get some form of relative calm.
I am thwarted by the invention of iTunes, from three different angles.
Firstly, the kids managed to get Gangnam Style onto my iPod. Godzilla feels that playing it loudly and repetitively will “help” me as I work on the PC.
Godzilla has also managed to lock his iPod. Thus the relentless insistence that I ‘fix’ the computer. I am forced to read through instructions that I am sure are in another language in order to right the wrong that occurred despite my numerous warnings and requests that he not fuck around with it.
I follow the instructions, only to be stopped in my tracks as iTunes refuses to speak to the computer. I follow several more pages of instructions; complete with uninstalls, restarting and turning the computer off, unplugs, reinstalls, swearing and throwing pens across the room.
I give up, apologise for my vast incompetencies, and suggest we all take a break and have a Family Day tomorrow.
I pour some wine.