This morning started out like many of our Sunday mornings; me up early, checking emails and my community, drinking coffee and attempting to drown out the sounds of screaming and thumping coming from my bedroom, Grumpy Pants in our bedroom, still in bed, “fighting” with all three boys, because that is what they do. Sunday mornings are, apparently, not for going to church, but for fighting and screaming and being very loud.
This is followed by the “I want pancakes” whiney chant. This is Grumpy’s job, so I leave him to it. I am not in the mood for pancakes, so whip up my “usual”; crispy bacon and poached eggs on toast, accompanied by grilled tomato and lemon-pepper spinach.
The jumping and chaos, meanwhile, continue on the couch, and the inevitable “I wanna watch Toy Story Free” commence. The remaining children, Grumpy and I partake in a bout of harmonious, family exasperated sighing. Monkey Boy puts the DVD on while Chippie shoves a variety of DVDs down behind the TV. In attempts to break the Toy Story 3 monotony, he selects “Russian” as the language of choice for this morning’s viewing.
They are most surprised when Spanish Buzz speaks … Spanish. Just like in the English version! Who’d’ve thunk it! Russian Spanish is identical to English Spanish. Only the subtitles were in Russian, which set off a giggling fit.
Breakfast consumed, Chippie and I rush off to a four-year-old birthday party. Not a party that has been running, continuously, for four years, but a party to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the birth of a friend from childcare.
Being only two hours long, I choose to stay. As do all the other parents, of which I only know two; a husband and wife team. Being four, there tend to be friends from a variety of places and other groups and institutions, so those I know are the only others from childcare, and I met her in the carpark last week.
Thus it was that I found myself in discussion with a father, from somewhere I’ve never heard of, and he’s talking to me about Lullaby Time with his child, and using the term as though I not only had a clue what he was on about, but that I actually partook in similar activities myself.
I scanned the food table for some chardonnay.
Meanwhile, Chippie was chatting to the dad of another friend, pointing out a bite he has on his cheek.
“Oh, no,” says the dad. “What happened?”
“I got shot,” replies Chippie and wanders off, leaving the dad with a confused look on his face and glancing at me for clarification.
I race home, no time for a shower, and scan my wardrobe for something that is a) formal and b) appropriate for today’s weather, being rainy and tits-freezing-off cold. Oh, and c) that fits.
I pull out a green dress that cost a fortune and is something like seven years old. I keep it because it cost a bloody fortune and I will get my money’s worth out of it. It is layered and warm, and has long sleeves and an asymmetrical hem, which touches the ground on one side because I am not tall enough to wear formal dresses.
I check with Grumpy “Does this look ok?” … “Yep, yep, it’s fine,” he says, without glancing up.
I pass Monkey Boy, because he, at least, can be trusted and won’t let me go out with my skirt tucked into my undies.
“Euww,” he says as he shudders. “Um, no. That colour really doesn’t suit you. And you look like a fish sort of thing (he’s referring to the asymmetrical hemline), like a mermaid thing. Only fat.”
This last statement coming only days after he commented “Have you lost weight? You have and that top you’re wearing makes you look like you have. Maybe it’s because you have really big boobs and they stick out and it just makes you look skinny under them?”
“Um, thank you for noticing,” is all I can reply.
I talk the green dress off, and select a well worn black one that I know works.
I’m still feeling the Fat Mermaid comment.
“Do I need to wear my suck-em-in undies?” I ask Grumpy Pants.
“Yes,” he replies.
Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.
I squeeze into them, pull on some stockings, find my nice bra and throw the dress on. Our babysitter- The Grandmother – is running late (which is slightly unusual) and we need to leave.
So we do, about five minutes before she arrives, and to the now familiar sounds of Toy Story 3. In Russian.
We make it on time to the wedding, sit through a very funny ceremony, the groom in a bright yellow suit, and the bride in a gorgeous red and purple frock. We ate, we drank and I found a Daggy Dancing soul mate … so we danced a lot.
Meanwhile, The Best Uncle in the World (Not he Favourite/Best Uncle/Worst Brother in the Universe) is making his way from interstate to stay the night with us. We’re not expecting him until late this evening, but a text message confirms he is nearing our house at 3.30. Shortly after that is a message about children drinking tea, eating lollypops and jumping on couches.
Followed shortly by “Oh, and if the coffee machine is broken – it WASN’T ME!”
I’m ready to leave the wedding at this point, for fear of what is actually happening in my house. Mostly to the coffee machine.
We stay till 8.00p.m., head home in the still freezing, rainy weather, open the back door and find the room strewn with balloons and streamers.
You see, it is The Grandmother’s birthday, so, to make up for her babysitting, I made her a cake. The Best Uncle In The World, having arrived early, offered to “watch the kids” whilst she went to visit a nearby friend for her birthday, and snuck out to purchase party goods and decorate the house in time for her return to our house.
Apparently on the basis that “Their parents are out having fun, they can have a party, too.”
Awesome. My oldest isn’t even a teenager yet, and the youngest can’t wipe his own bum without help. and already they’re organising parties at home when we’re out.