It finally happened.
It was bound to, really.
Yet another night of bugger all sleep, my website issues of a few days ago resolved and I am faced with another this morning. But … but … my To Do List has Stuff on it. And Things. Stuff and Things and I want them finished. One item even says “finish this”.
Difficult under the combination lack of sleep, school holiday, vomiting todder, fuzzy brain stuff going on. But more issues and it’s just pissing me off.
So I go and have MUG and some breakky and am happily eating my strawberry jam on toast and reading the bits of this morning’s paper that a) dont’ involve football and b) that Monkey Boy hasn’t cut out, when Monkey Boy and Godzilla walk past each other, barely touch and Godzilla lets out one of his trademark screams.
It was all I could do not to grab his arm, snap it over my leg and say “There! When that happens, then you can fucking scream like that. Now shut the fuck up!”
Seriously, the dramatics and screaming and reaction to nothing are insanely ridiculous.
Forced not to go and break his arm over my leg, instead I snap and throw my toast at him, missing him and leaving a big red blob on the all behind him, and just above the milk-spillage that had caused the Leg Sawn Off With Rusty Steak Knife scream in the first place.
Then I said “When you break your fucking arm you can fucking scream like that. Now shut the fuck up!”
Quite frankly, I’d had enough. Then I made him clean the mess up, and he only cleaned the milk he’d spilt and I had to go and find my piece of toast and wipe jam off the wall.
Then, just after I sat on all the folded washing that Grumpy had done, and cried and wiped snot and tears on some clean stuff, he made me go for a walk. I’m not sure if it was for my benefit, or so he could complete folding and have more room on the bed to put folded stuff. Still, I went. For a long one.
Became most upset when everyone I said “good morning” and gave a big smile to responded with “GO PIES!” or “GO SAINTS” screamed in my face. As much as I live in the state of Victoria, and have done for much of my life, I have a serious aversion to AFL football. I tolerate it as best as possible, but this just pissed me off. I. Don’t. Care.
I sorted out the website issues as best I could, ie by delegating to someone who knew what they were doing, and went and had a bit of a lie down with Marian Keyes for a while. Desperate to not be in the house much longer, for mental health reasons and to avoid having to be confronted by any more football than necessary, I roasted some chickens and organised for a picnic.
And then the day went downhill. We arrive at picnic spot just as two things happened simultaneously:
- The AFL grand final was announced a draw and now I am subject to another weeks worth of shit crap that I hate;
- It started raining, and my desperate need to be outside, out of our house and having some fun, outside time with the family, doing something different is thwarted.
Head home and have a picnic on the floor where Grumpy Pants will allow, just, the picnic blanket from the car to be used, but won’t let us use the picnic set, thus kind of taking the shine off the fun bit. Still, we managed.
Dinner over, we watch the Simpsons Movie for the 9 billionth time and I use the time to do some catch up work.
Chippie is prepared for bed, sits on Grumpy’s lap with his milk, drinks it, stands up walks around ot his brothers sitting on beanbags in front of the TV and proceeds to vomit on them, the beanbags and the floor.
And vomit and vomit and vomit.
Then poke at it for a bit and not let me undress him, because he gets obsessive and anxious about things like that. Namely, having been bathed and dressed for bed, he must remain in that state until the next morning, when it is time to be undressed and a change of clothing is required. Until such time, he must remain in his post-bath jarmies, even if the ones he is wearing are now covered in his own spew.
Grumpy is delegate task of cleaning floor, whilst I embark on the more challenging role of undressing a potential vomit-time bomb who is covered in spew and having a mild tantrum about being de-clothed. On the kitchen sink. Where I am tossing vomitty jarmies and trying to wipe him down without getting any more bits on the floor or couch.
Task complete, and everyone is shuffled off to bed …