Our dishwasher is still out of action, and we are still taking great delight in making the kids dry the dishes that we handwash. Fun, fun, fun.
Ok, fun is taking it a bit far, but I seem to have it down pat. Perhaps it’s the evil glare I give them when they even think about uttering something along the lines of not wanting to do it. It’s working beautifully, and the job is getting done. They don’t whinge, complain or tantrum. Not that I can hear anyway. Possibly because my fingers are in my ears and I’m saying “LA LA LA” very loudly. Or I’m up the other end of the house sticking pins under my tonails so as to distract myself from it.
But when adult male testosterone is involved. like this morning, the complainy levels go up 100 fold. Possibly more. I’m not sure what it is, but the Grumpy one decided he would wash this morning – apparenlty he is better at it, and I’m not going to argue – and suddenly, the kids can’t dry, they don’t know how to, their leg fell off and their unbalanced and can’t dry things without falling over and breaking plates, the dog we don’t have ate the only teatowel we have left and the other 27 teatowels in the drawer aren’t “right” and … and … and …
They do this when we’re out having a nice coffee, too. They’re well behaved and listen, because I, evil mummy extraordinnaire, will refuse to buy them a milkshake and will order a chocolate muffn for the sole purpose of eating it in front of them should they piss me off in even the smallest way. Then Grumpy will join us and the volume levels and boistrousness increase exponentially.
It’s like adult male testosterone, and to a lesser degree child testosterone, is some kind of invisible gas that fucks with the kids heads. Come to think of it, there is probably a ‘gas’ of some sort involved as well.
I wonder if someone will ever find a cure for it …
(Oh, and it’s not restricted to boy children, either. I’ve seen girl children affected by the presence of adult male testosterone too – argh!)