Monkey Boy’s gymnastics competition this afternoon, whereby I must leave at same time as Grumpy Pants heads off to work, thus highlighting the fact that I, yet again, get to do this on my own with three kids.
As the 23 alarms – so as to ensure that I have not been so traumatised by concept of sititng in freezing factory-like setting to watch hard to see, male pre-teens performing mediocre gymstics routines that I have forgotten I have this too look forward to – go off, reminding me I must leave in 15 minutes, I race around packing nappy bags and snack bags, a plethora of paraphernalia to entertain 7 year old and nearly 2 year old, yell at Grumpy demanding some cash for entry into competition (and possibly purchase of coffee and sausage sizzle fare), dress various children in suitably appropriate attire, locate shoes, grab bags and stuff various children into various seating arrangements in cars.
Also wonder, at this point, why it didn’t occur to me earlier to organise somewhere else … anywhere else … for Godzilla to spend the next sevaral hours. Put it down to channeling all energy into not having anxiety attack over thought of what afternoon is about to entail.
Several kilometres away from this month’s competition venue, the car starts dinging at me. Am fairly sure all doors are closed and seatbelts are on, as we have just driven what feels like the width of two states to get this far.
It is the petrol thingy, informing me I have 80km to go before I run out of petrol. It also reminds me that my purse is … I’m actually not really sure. I just know it is not with me. Last place I recall having it is at the supermarket. Am fairly sure it came home with me. As fairly sure as I can be about anything at this point in time.
Lug small child, two bags and a camera into venue, ushering two other children into the venue, put on over-stressed face and advise 12 year old a the door I am stressed as cannot find purse. She is most obliging.
Or, quite possibly, terrified of this crazed and stressed woman holding a toddler.
Secure seats in a position that ensured escapage should it be required, yet also out of the way and where Chippie was least able to distract, annoy or throw anything at anyone.
Which was pointless, really, as he climbed off the chair, the seat flung up and smacked him in the head, and he had massive tantrum that distracted and annoyed everyone. Tantrum was a result of seat not doing what he wanted, not the fact it had hit him in head. Thus, he commenced throwage of things, kicking off with Monkey Boy’s recently removed socks and sand-filled shoes.
(Incidentally and totally off topic, he informed me the school had just purchased additional sand for the sandpit. Had I known this was necessary, I would happily have sold them their sand, now adorning most surfaces in my living room, back to them. I would even have returned it for free.)
Outside we went, where he smacked me in head for picking him up, the grabbed my pants and pulled hard whilst kicking me in the shin for putting him down. I went back indoors and left him to deal with concerned passers-by to check on his wellbeing, resulting in some stop-screaming, followed immediatley by louder screaming.
Sent a text to a friend for some encouragement and empathy.
She informed me she had a pimple on her bum.
Which reminded me that I had no funds for desperately needed coffee, even if the chances of it being the dodgy, instant sort were excessively high.
Replied via SMS requesting she desist from teasing me about how fabulous her life was and offered to swap. Actually, a pimple on my bum right now might distract me enough from wanting to leap to my death from the high bar and remind me I still have a bum. The sub-zero temperature of the venue had rendered me numb from the waist down. Spent remainder of time wishing for numbness from waist up.
Follow up text from friend reminding me that when competition over it would be Wine O’Clock.
Appreciated sentiments, however, by time competition over it would be well past Wine O’Clock and couldn’t help but feel just a little resentful of waste of good wine drinking time.
Competiton over, Monkey Boy improved significantly since previous competition, Chippie does big poo and requires nappy change, Godzilla shuts car door on Chippie’s head whilst I’m getting organised to deal with his bum, Monkey Boy takes Godzilla’s DS causing Leg Being Amputated With Blunt Spoon Screamage and I contemplate locking car doors and leaving without them.
Except, they are on inside of car.
Commence drive home where car pings at me again, advising I now have 70km to go before car runs out of petrol.
I advise car that if it and everyone else in it doesn’t shut up very soon, I have about .23 seconds before I run out of tolerance.