Well, what a lovely holiday we're having here at the Homestead. First, we have a massive lice outbreak, featuring largely in the head of our 7 year old. I removed at least 40, yes FORTY live adults from his scone in one sitting after he wouldn't go to sleep the first night of our holidays and I noticed him scratch his head. Next morning, I checked the 5 year old. Thankfully, he only had 2. I had 1. The baby and the groom, 0. I have been raking our hair and scalp with a lice comb twice daily ever since, and while I can safely say that none of us have lice, nits or flakes of any kind, we are all but bald. Small price to pay, methinks.
Next stop, Hand, Foot & Mouth Disease. I think it's the "Disease" portion that makes me feel so blah. The 5 year old presented with what looked like some small bites or pimples on his wrist and hand not long after we had had a play date at, you guessed it, a play centre. We had avoided most icky childhood diseases at until now, due to my children throwing pink fits when I had attempted to introduce them to a few hours of childcare in the past. Most kids I know who have broken out in HFMD, lice, the delightfully named Slapface, had contracted these from creche and the like where many small mouths, hands and snot purveyors carouse. Well, now it seems I am attempting to fit all of these in on the one two week break. Any small semblance of smugness I had regarding my children avoiding such illness' has now been eradicated.
The poor baby,meanwhile, is not so lucky as to have come down with only a mild case. She is covered in blisters, around and most likely in her mouth, on both the tops and soles of her feet, palms and tops of her hands, all over her nappy region and would you believe, her knees. Poor moppet barely knows what to do with herself. She really just wants to be cuddled by yours truly for a good part of the day, however given the Groom has just unexpectedly and somewhat miraculously installed shelves into our wardrobes, I am obsessed with rearranging our bedroom. Not very conducive to lap time, that. I must be content with being one third of the way through my bedroom re-vamp revolution, and try not to resent the needs of the Blistered One. I'm sure if she could only grasp the excitement that I feel at the prospect of buying baskets for the new shelves - creating a system of neatness as yet unseen in this house - she would forgo her whining and neediness.
So, think of me fondly, wont you, as those of you with school & kinder aged offspring gallivant about the place, signing up for Bunnings workshops, taking your kids swimming to the local indoor pool, and many other such fun school holiday type activities. No really, we're fine here under lock down conditions, can't have us passing anything on to the rest of you, can we? Happy freaking Easter.
If you'd wandered into my home a 1/2 an hour ago, you would have witnessed a five foot five mixed breed former country chick apoplectic with rage. Those of you who knew me in my younger years may not quite be quaking with shock at this revelation. These days, however, I have mostly overcome my natural bent at displaying mind-blowing anger over the little things that life doth present on a regular basis. Today, I regressed, and then some.
Having only last night received my loving spouse home from a 4 day interstate business trip, one could be forgiven for expecting something from the "nice" spectrum to be pumping through my veins. Alas, this is not to be. Said 4 days spent sans husbandly support with a teething 15 month old, belligerent 5 year old and worn out 7 year old left me a touch irritable. Coupled with what one suspects is a savage case of PMS, the results are less than happy.
What, then, possessed me to climb up on top of a dining chair, replete with two foam mattress inserts for extra height, attempting to drill a battery powered flying Airbus A380 to the ceilings of my two male spawn? I put it down to Mother Guilt. After displaying Angry Mother characteristics for a couple of days, I was keen to provide a gesture of niceness to my sons. It began pleasantly enough. I got the cordless drill from the laundry, and told my youngest son that he could hook the plane on when the base was drilled in. Easy peasey, Japanesey. Ever tried drilling teeny tiny screws while standing on a dining chair upside down with a spastic left hand due to a childhood accident involving glass?!?! Yeah, well I have, and I am telling you, the rage was almost justified.
As my fairly useless left hand began cramping up under the strain of holding the smallest screws even produced straight so that drilling could commence, I felt the molten lava of rage ascend from the pit of my premenstrually rounded stomach. I attempted some Nancy-Boy "self talk" as prescribed by many and various so-called mental health professionals. Bastards. After my twelfth attempt, when the screw popped out of my gnarled digits and bounced onto the floor, I could contain myself no more. The sound I emitted was both loud and primal. My five year old was advised with as much calm as I could muster that leaving the room and popping on some cartoons may now be a good option. For a kid whose general response to my suggestions is to defy me, I must say I was impressed by the speed with which he staged his exit. That would be the survival instinct shining through, I suppose.
I came down from my rickety position atop the chair loaded with height-giving cushions, and located the all important miniature screw. I called it very bad words. Words starting with "C". And no, not crap. Determination to assuage my Mother Guilt was strong in me, however, and thus I would not rest until the goddamn Airbus A380, $25 from your local airport, was whizzing around in a wizzy circle from ceilings of both of my lads.
Dear Reader, I am pleased to report that I achieved this goal. I roared. I cried. I kicked inanimate objects. I stomped my feet like a pissy 3 year old not allowed to chew gum while my older sibling gleefully blew bubbles in my face. Frustration, lack of co-ordination and hands weakened by childhood tendon damage were no match for my need to follow through on my promise to my sons. The goddamn planes are attached firmly with all three screws, and spinning gleefully with no place to go, and no hope of landing. Excuse me now, wont you, while I go and stuff my face with chocolate, shortbread and the odd nip of gin, I need self medicating STAT!
