More chaos for the day – unsure I’d now be able to cope with ‘normal’ or ‘routine’ any more – complete with swimming lessons after school. Again.
Ensure swimwear for Chippie and I washed, dried and stuffed into the swim bag, along with the required number of towels and board shorts for the older two as I run out the door, stuff Chippie into his car seat, fighting to plug him in with his arms loaded with Arna the E’phant, 17 trains from Thomas the Boring Arse Tank Engine and Friends and screaming for his dummy.
I then get 13 minutes to sit and seeth whilst I await some dumbarse builder from over the back to move his bloody van as, apparently, a garage door isn’t obvious enough an object to suggest an unsuitable area to leave a car parked.
Arrive in time, have the “look, just wear those bathers for gods sake, yours are probably behind the washing machine” conversation, again, get them into swim lessons on time, ponder the fact that ever second person in the pool addresses Chippie by name and I have no clue who they are, drag him out kicking and screaming after he decided he wanted something Monkey Boy had and I wouldn’t let him snatch. Also, a family change room was free and there didn’t appear to be anyone waiting for it.
It. Was. MINE! And no kicking, screaming toddler, oblivious seven year old or obstinate ten year old was going to stop me from getting it.
Arrive home, Godzilla advising me his special lunch day (the equivalent of a school lunch order, but only once a term – our school has no tuckshop (am hoping, therefore, that I will miss the whole “tuckshop arms” thing)) note is required tomorrow at the latest, complete with tears because I have no idea what he’s talking about.
Advise a bag search. Preferably a more comprehensive one than the partial opening of one of several compartments of said bag whislt focussing entirely on the TV look. No note.
Unless, of course, you count the envelope containing a cheque and persmission slip that was required back at school four weeks ago, and was sent off with him prior to that date.
And I say so. Also is another note I responded to and sent back with him last Friday, and the special lunch note is still AWOL. The missing invite from last November has finally appeared, however.
Tears. From him re the catastrophic realisation that he may never have a special lunch again in his life. Ever. Me as I go and bang my head against the bedroom wall, as it seems less painful and annoying than having to figure out a system for note transfer that will increase the chances of all notes arriving at the appropriate destination in a suitable and acceptable time frame, including any delivery of reaquired funds with the corresponding note.
Also, I have to ensure Monkey Boy’s swim gear is washed and dried before 8.25 tomorrow morning. Oh, looky, and now its raining.
Pour wine, cook dinner, hoist Chippie up under my arm to remove him from kitchen and smash left knee on the very pointy corner of the coffee table.
Eventually get to sit for a moment. Just long enough to feel the stabby-in-right-eye headache that usually converts to a migraine if left long enough creeping into my right eye.
Also, long enough for Chippie to smash me in the face with a biscuit tin. Right across the bridge of my nose.
Then offer me an evil laugh. Cute. But evil.
I stagger to the bathroom to examine the damage, pain spreading across my face and doing everything I can not to laugh hysterically. Because that’s just what I do.
Am most disappointed to find that there is not a bruise visibly spreading across my face in the same path as the pain I’ve just encountered, and instead discover a teensy cut.
I’d like to say there was blood running down my nose and dripping off the end. Or trickling. Or even oozing. It was nearly oozing. so I deserve some sympathy, right?
Instead, I crouch down in front of Chippie, point to the insubstantial knick hidden behind my glasses and say “No throwing. See what you did to Mummy?”
“Nose,” he says.
“Ey’s. Mouf. Cheeky cheek. Head,” he informs me pointing to the respective bits.
“Hehehehehe,” he concludes. And runs off.
Search cupboard for painkillers to find we are seriously devoid of anything suitable. Contemplate the only remaining option; a Wiggles bandaid, before deciding it is less likely to get my sympathy and more likely to induce hysterical laughter in the family I’m surrounded by.
Have I said *sigh* yet?