#devilchildren

We all love a good morning routine right? We rise quietly, bleary-eyed but excited about the potential of a new day, stumble out in to the rising sun and greet the songbirds as they sing in the new dawn.

Ha ha fucking ha.

Today I am lucky I got to school before the first bell – as it was it was lucky I didn’t run over the girls as they lined up for assembly as I sped in to the grounds much MUCH later than I intended to be on this bloody Monday morning.

I get up in the morning in a good mood. Pretty much every day without fail. It’s one of my most annoying habits. But I have spawned offspring that do not. And the GD has his own ‘routine’ that may or may not involve the rest of us depending on whether he has decided that he is in a terrific hurry that morning or not.

On days that I don’t boot-camp or run – more frequent in my old age than I’d readily admit – I get up and feed the pets, put the coffee on and I go through and wake the rest of the house. The 6 yr old gets up immediately with me and I/we make him breakfast; I go through multiple times to the bedroom and remind the 9 yr old that he needs to get up, all the while finding their clothes and shoes for the day and ‘laying them out’ for them like they are fucking little princes or some shit. The 6 yr old clings like a limpet and will often follow me through the house with his cereal or toast in hand all the while leaving a trail of food for the dog to follow. The dog loves him for this – who doesn’t appreciate a second breakfast?

Once they are up and getting dressed I make their lunches and put a piece of toast in for me. (I haven’t had coffee yet – I like to have my coffee WITH my breakfast). Then, before I get to my toast I find something that the 9 yr old will deign to eat – he is very anti breakfast – and help the 6 yr old get dressed because apparently he ‘can’t’ by himself.

Then I find my toast – if I’m not there to witness it pop my toaster flings it high in the air and it can land anywhere – and sit down to have breakfast and my first cup of coffee with the 9 yr old (who is often in the other room sulking because I haven’t found him the right tee shirt/ shorts/ shoes and he won’t eat with the food I have made on pain of death).

Then just as I am finishing up and getting ready to shower the GD will come through and announce he is getting in the shower. This is the beginning of the end.

You see, the GD’s routine consists roughly of getting up, making coffee/pouring his cup and going outside with it to have a cigarette (which actually means staring at his phone for twenty minutes), then if no one is nagging him to do otherwise (read: me asking him to either feed the animals or children etc) he comes inside and goes and sits on the toilet for half an hour (he’s staring on his phone there too), then he comes in and showers, dresses and comes in to the kitchen to announce that he’s in a terrible hurry because the motorway is ‘crazy’ and he doesn’t want to be late. Then he just leaves. Just like that, He fucking leaves with no fighting and no one screaming about their shoes or anything – it’s a fucking miracle.

Naturally at all points in his routine I am doing my damnedest to disrupt his happy little meandering, and this all comes off as me badgering him because if I can get in the shower first it will dramatically change the morning for all.

If I can get in the shower first then the GD has nothing to do while he waits so he can in fact, make sure the little Dutchmen have their shoes on, their school bags packed and are not killing each-other as they wait for me to be ready to take them to school. On these mornings we leave much closer to 7.30, have a pleasant ride to school, and I get to school before eight am with my waking morning sunshine-y ass intact.

But mostly lately, even on days that I boot camp because usually the routine starts the same way once I get home (only we’re now 45 mins behind so that’s fun) we have the shitshow that was this morning. ONCE everyone else is ready to go, and the GD is out of the shower and walking out the door – because he’s going to be so late remember?, Then it is finally my turn to start getting ready.

Now, it should be relatively simple in fact for this to happen, I shower, I get dressed, we get in the car and leave. Simple.

But as it turns out, once the #devilchildren are ready to go to school they can’t actually be trusted alone together because that’s when they go in to full hellion mode. I can bargain with them, bribe them, threaten them – or even, in an attempt to be positive, remind them of ‘that one time they played nicely together while they waited and then we all drove to school together cheerfully and it was wonderful?’ but to no avail.

Today the water wasn’t even running before the screaming started. The youngest child has a shriek that is piercing no matter how far away you are and I feel it physically. I can’t ablute with the door shut – too dangerous to not be within earshot – so it was but a matter of seconds before I had both of them in the bathroom with me listing the others crimes and trying to drown the other out with sheer volume. Banished separately – one to their (shared) room with the other to the lounge didn’t work because one’s toys were in the others time out zone and he swiftly set about breaking as many as them as possible much to the horror of his offsider who started screaming profanities that would have made a pirate blush.

Cut to me standing naked in the lounge (in full view of any neighbour who wanted to be put off their breakfast) pointing dramatically down the hallway and shouting that ‘EVERYONE IS FUCKING WALKING TO SCHOOL AND I DON’T CARE HOW LONG IT TAKES FOR YOU TO GET THERE!’.

I finally showered with the 6 yr old sobbing piteously outside the glass, the 9 yr old in his bed refusing to come out (blankets over his head and blinds drawn – shades of his teen years I fear) all the while cursing my beloveds name.

We all sulked on the way to school. No mindless chatter about whatever is in the 6 yr olds head (I’ll give you a clue – it’s usually poo) or any deeper (more worrying) questions from the 9 yr old like ‘WHY did the Americans vote in Trump and does this mean all the black people are going to be shot now?’ for example.

I drove to school feeling guilty for getting so mad and hoping that they wouldn’t have a shite day at school as a result of our bloody awful morning.*

There are ways to mitigate this madness. If I break the ‘no screens before school’ rule they will stare like zombies at their chosen screen while I shower and dress and get myself in the car – but as soon as I turn the screens off so begins the 20 minute meltdown over putting a pair of shoes on because the flickering blue lights have taken away their ability to determine between a reasonable request i.e. put your shoes on and get in the car and that tantamount to pain and torture and endless suffering.

Some mornings I get home from boot camp and run to the shower while no one is looking and issue instructions from inside my watery haven. Those are good mornings.

And if I have to be fair, and godamnit the GD reads this so I have to be, some mornings he has fed one of the children by the time I get back and might have started a lunchbox or two before he sees me and skedaddles. To be fair he goes in the opposite direction of the kids school so dropping them off doesn’t make sense. But I’m not in the mood to be fair and it’s not that part that fucks with me.

It’s the way he just GOES. ‘Oops I’m going to be late!’ he sings out gaily and runs out the door. As if somehow me being late to work every single fucking day isn’t as bad as if he was ten minutes later. Don’t forget that I stop on the way with the kids too, and although I basically slow down, kiss them and drop them off, more often that not lately I have to get out and walk them in because they are so tired and sad about mornings (normal end of term stuff). This adds a good fifteen minutes to an already to-long routine.

I know this is end of term stuff and everyone is exhausted. And I know that some people will be reading this and thinking WHY don’t they make their lunches the night before, and foster more independence in their children to make their own breakfasts and all that happy helpful shit that I would mutter under my breath too. And I do mutter that shit under my breath at me. But tbh at the moment I am hanging out until JUST AFTER my kids have hit their pillows before I collapse in to mine. Our routines go to hell when we’re tired and that’s just the sucky, sticky reality of it.

Just the freedom of being able to leave when I’m ready like that. The miracle of it. I’m always reminded of this bit by Michael Mcintyre about Leaving the House.

Little do the #littledutchmen know that I have plans to ride my bike to my new job next year. I wonder if that means the GD will be dropping them off and I can just leave when I’m ready? Huh.

*They had a great day and all of the mornings dramas were forgotten in minutes as soon as they saw their friends of course, it was just Mummy who thought about it all day and felt like shite. Happy lads upon afternoon pick up. Because I knew you were wondering.

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183 – We made it!

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We made it to the end of term! I know I disappeared for a minute there this week but I was trying to stay sane whilst keeping everything I needed to remember in my head at the same time – no room for superfluous thoughts or word usage.

As we crawled closer and closer to 3.20 this afternoon I could feel myself slowly giving up on all fronts. Gut-healing restrictions all GONE, will to get out of bed in the morning for boot camp GONE and capacity for original thought GONE. Long blacks with cold milk – takeaway – have become my best friend. Whittakers chocolate my secret lover. Boot camp my arch nemesis. The fitbit has been an experiment in sadism. And yet I have been a chipper, chatty poppet.

My poor office mate has had to put up with me babbling away like a beauty pageant contestant in her ear all week – all sunshine no substance. That’ll be all the sugar I reckon! I also have a big, round, sugar belly.

And I have been thinking about wine. The photo at the top gave you pause eh? Especially if you’ve spoken to me recently and heard me babbling about how the only things I have managed to stay off were gluten and alcohol (that’s my stubborn streak). And the photo is of the mantelpiece in the music lounge yes.

I have been thinking about wine this week. Red wine. The wonderful kick in the back of the throat that a good(?) red wine gives when it hits it for the first time. The satisfaction of cracking the seal on the twist top (ahh so classy). The ‘legs’ on the side of the glass when you swirl it. Fuck me this mamabear loves wine. And it’s my birthday next week – surely I’ve been saying to myself, surely I could have a glass for my birthday? after all I won’t be (insert number dangerously close to 40 here) ever again! So the seed has been planted. But I’m a stubborn fucking biatch. Look again;

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That’s right ‘alcohol fucking removed’. Whaaaaaaaaa?

I was driving home after ringing a million homes to find out why half of my cohort was not at school. I have been hearing variations on ‘Oh I’m sorry Ms Dean but my daughter is on holiday already in samoa/america/hamiltron and will not be returning until next term now’ all week now (apparently the school term means nothing and the credits she might have gotten today in the Maths assessment can go to hell because cheap fares and a teenager free house is more important THAN YOUR CHILDS EDUCATION thank you very much).

I digress. Where was I? I was driving home and I needed/wanted/craved/could think of nothing but Wine. And then suddenly Eureka! They are always trying to con pregnant women in to ‘alcohol free wine’. They wouldn’t make pregnant women drink stuff that tastes NOT like wine and call it wine would they?

I stopped at Glengarry’s and went and asked the friendly wine lady if they had a decent non-alcoholic wine that actually tasted like wine. And then without even thinking I LIED and said it was for my pregnant friend coming round for dinner. What the fuck?! Why did I lie? Obviously I am ashamed of my teetotaler status. And I want the strangers in the wine shop to like me? Because I care so much. Because…..    I think that’s a whole other blog post. Jebus.

What was the ‘wine’ like you ask? Hmmm. I can’t say it didn’t taste like wine. But it did taste distinctly like sour juice. Which I guess is what wine is – except the good stuff has the alcohol and it makes your teeth tingle so good.

I have had one glass and it wasn’t awful. I will probs not buy it again deliberately but it’s like the whole gf thing – you have to forget what ‘real’ pasta tastes like before you have gf ‘pasta’ or it will be bloody terrible. I haven’t forgotten yet what real wine tastes like. I will just have to find another way to scratch the super-tired-at-the-end-of-term-mama-needs-a-treat itch.

Tomorrow I sleep in – School Holidays woo-fucking-hoo!!

179 – brain dribble

I can’t think of anything to write. I’m on an end of term high where I lurch from manically cheerful, rushing about the classroom, grinning widely at students, playing inappropriate music (accidentally) and practically skipping up the stairs – to the other end of the spectrum – slack-jawed, glassy-eyed, zombie breath; staring at whatever screen is occupying my attention at whatever moment. I tried to look at my rolls this evening and the red squares all swam together and danced across the screen. Then I followed my poor office buddy out to the car babbling like a fucking perky brook about fucking perky rubbish. Then I got in the car and drove on autopilot to the stupidmarket like a very stylish robot. You know it.

You know what I was thinking about?

What song I would like played at my funeral. Which is weird considering the song on my stereo was ‘Insane in the brain’ by Cypress Hill (yeah that’s right, old school as and I know most of the words – you can just see me white lady rapping can’t you?). Not exactly a funeral song. I have a LOT of trouble pinning this shit down.

The GD has a whole list of songs that he would like played at his funeral and because I have always figured he’d die first (seriously – he smokes, he never exercises and he is WAY too cocky about shit – it’s inevitable) I have never put much thought in to it. He has picked great songs too, Mark Lanegan features heavily. (click on the blue name Mum then the song will play in a new window)

Also there are too many songs to mention. Aren’t there? Because you have your current funeral fave which you may not love in 50 years. And then there are the classics. Bette Midler features heavily I believe. And you want to pick something that really sums you up but doesn’t leave yourfriends and family totally gutted. They need to be uplifted and thinking something along the lines of ‘fuck yeah that Kathleen was a cool chick, we had a good laugh’ type of shit. Or whatever little old ladies think to themselves at funerals (I plan on getting to be old and eccentric so naturally my mourners will all be little old folks too).

It’s a tricky one.

Wild horses is a good one. Have you got any good funeral songs on your list?