By my very nature that I am mothering and working full time and doing a heap of other stuff and lack the capacity to sit still for even a moment, a phrase that is oft thrown my way is “You’re a super mum”.
T’is but a phrase I despise, although I have been known to leave the house with my underpants on the outside of my suitable-for-wearing-in-public-pants, but we’ll leave it there, shall we.
Added to our usual busy-ness is the advent of the employment of our eldest offspring. Not that we’ve employed him, that would be ridiculous on quite a number of levels. Also, we know him so well that we’d rather not have him in our employ, thank you very much.
other poor sucker establishment decided he was suitable enough to speak nicely to their customers, serve them food, take their abuse, and give him money in exchange for his being there. Thus, our routine has been thrown into a small amount of chaos; although it has got better now he actually puts his shifts into the calendar so we know what the hell is going on well before he needs to be at his place of employment.
The evenings are the worst. Partly because both Grumpy and I find ourselves in that pyjamaed state where we are of the expectation that we will not have to leave the house. Then we are reminded that indeed we do … or one of us does … to perform the delivery of employed teenager to his workplace, and to collect him at the end of his shift.
Sometimes, this occurs shortly before midnight, which is somewhat of a unwanted time for both Grumpy and I.
It was made worse this week. Grumpy, possibly due to intuition, or possibly because they were the pyjamas on top in his pyjama drawer, donned his Superman jarmies.
He sat up until it was time to collect the child in question, and I, because I do, went to bed and was fast asleep hours before. Needless to say, I was extremely confused when my phone rang at quarter past midnight, and the caller ID advised me it was Grumpy.
My head had thought it was Monkey Boy, the child to be collected, calling to tell me that his father hadn’t arrived. This, I concluded, was because he was tired and had fallen asleep on the couch.
As my brain was trying to process how Grumpy’s phone got to be in Monkey Boy’s hand, if indeed Grumpy was asleep on the couch a floor below, Monkey Boy’s voice came through … “Can you come? Dad’s here, but he flattened the battery in the car.”
Staggering and stumbling through the confusion in my mind, I extracted myself from the warmth of my bed, staggered and stumbled my way to getting dressed (almost replicating the undies on the outside thing again), staggered and stumbled down to the garage, scrambled around to find the jumper leads that were required.
Upon my arrival, I found myself having to swiftly hand over the jumper leads to console my fifteen year old, clearly traumatised by this experience.
First off, it was the way he yelled “Don’t get out of the car!” at me.
Which, of course, made me leap out of the car to see if he was okay.
“Don’t. You’re making it worse!” he cried.
“Making what worse?” I ask.
“Dad got out when my manager was here. Have you seen what he is wearing?!”
Socks. Slippers. Superman boxer shorts. A non-slipper-matching jacket.
What was the problem?
Admittedly, I was a little disappointed at this stage … it should have been me inflicting that level of embarrassing trauma upon him, not his father.
Isn’t that what mothers do?
Still, it didn’t stop me high-fiving Grumpy Pants on his performance.