After spending yesterday with a fair chunk of the extended family, and my lists (work, christmas, favourite wines) lost amongst themselves (or quite possibly gone to live with a nice family who pays them attention) I advised the Grumpy one that I had a LOT of work to do, and that I require his undivided attention … all focussed on the children.
I got him to make me breakfast as well, then had a shower to myself, for about 13 seconds, when Monkey Boy joined me. Got out when done, jeansed up, aquired a full MUG and again, just to be sure he got it, mentioned to Grumpy that I was working and not to be disturbed.
About 23 seconds after that I heard Monkey Boy yelling quite louldy. “Help” and things like that. I successfully avoided it for as long as motherly possible, raced up to the ensuite and found Chippie had worked his way into the shower, fully clothed, and was having a fabulous time.
Aided the undressing without dripping on the carpet, located MUG and mentioned, just in case he hadn’t quite got it, that I was busy workingand not to be disturbed.
I got approximately 58 seconds, successfully ignoring the wresting noises emanating from the bedroom, when Grumpy comes in and says “Look at my eye.”
Ok, thats really lovely, but right now I don’t give a fuck. Stupid technical things were taking my attention, and I’ve seen the redness of eye before and figured he’d live. Besides, it wasn’t as bad as the phone smashing in mouth I got yesterday. And no sympathy there, either, might I add.
After informing me his eye was very sore several times, I eventually relented and ask that he let me finish this one job and I’d drive him to emergency. There wasn’t any blood, so it’s not like we needed an emergency dash for bandaids. Besides, anal organised type I am, we always have bandaids.
He allowed me approximately half a minute before getting dressed and saying “See ya, I’m going.”
No bloody way was I letting him leave me with the kids in the hyped up state they were in until this job was done, so convinced him I was nearly done and let him do the “Hurry up and get in the car” thing.
Off we head, drop him off and wait in the car for a phone call advising what was going on. Didn’t want to unplug the baby and have bored, tired kids sitting in emergency of the Eye & Ear. By “sitting” I mean climbing on chairs, lying on the floor, eating under-seat chewing gum, loudly expressing desires to purchase and consume hospital cafeteria food and saying “I’m bored!” a lot.
Call comes – a cut on cornea, and a wait of 2-3 hours for the doctor. Please leave me in peace and I’ll ring when I’m done.
So I did all I could do and took the kids to the supermarket to buy bread and milk and a few necessities for dinner (nacho supplies).
Monkey Boy got mildy silly and I advised him if he didn’t stop I would be forced to stab him with a blunt spoon.
“You would really stab me?” he asks, all wide-eyed and innocent.
“Yes. With a blunt spoon.”
“Huh!” he exclaims, loudly. “What kind of mother would do that to her son,” causing a shelf-stacker to snort his high energy drink though his nose, and a nearby shopper to head to isle 6 for a new pack of Tena.
Not home long … just long enough to make lunch and settle down for some quite time … just long enough for us all to have just found our peace … when the “Pick me up pls” text comes in, and off we head again.
Meet Grumpy, large white eye patch over his right eye, and requested to drive to chemist for supplies. Children refuse to cooperate, avoiding saying things like “Arrrr” and “Ahoy there, me hearties”.
Grumpy, rendered quadriplegic by a small scratch on his eye, lies on the couch for a snooze. At perfect height for Chippie, fascinated by large, white eye covering and who commences further pokage of eye.
In a “being a helper” kind of mood, I ring and email a few friends having a rough time and start on some Christmas cards.
My good samaratany mood is shortlived when I realise it is evening meal time, which I can tell by screamage of youngest child.
Make nachos (as promised), serve them up and start chopping the provisions for burritos. Task completed, I set the various serving bowls down and ponder loudly about the whereabouts of the nachos.
Guilty looks all around from 3 larger boys. Screaming for more from baby.
Back to kitchen for spoons, and upon my return am presented with small plate of nachos.
Which look mysteriously as though they’ve had the cheese and salsa sucked off them, and some guacamole (made by ME) has been scraped together from everyone elses’s plates and smothered over my serving to hide the fact mine have more kid spit than tasty cheese on them.
Scoff down a burrito and half, all I can manage before baby rubs salsa into his eyes and I have to take him for a bath.
Apparently, Grumpy now has a morbid fear of him.
Either that, or he doesn’t want me to share his stash of good nachos he’s hidden from me.