My mornings suck.  And by suck, I mean they suck great big hairy sweaty balls kinda suck.  First there’s the waking up in dopey state but ever so aware of the fact that I’m in pain… still.  Then there’s the monumental effort it takes to get out of fucking bed when all I want to do is crawl up in a ball and forget about the world.  The first thing I do is splash cold water on my face to try and feel something other than pain, even if it is just a quick dose of ‘mumble fucking cold water in the face’.  Then I have my ‘wake up and shake off the drug induced coma’ drugs.  Then force myself to have some very chewy muesli so that my jaw is forced to work which forces me to unclench my teeth that I’ve had clamped tight all night in order to enable things like, Oh I dunno… speech.

And then there is the week day rituals of fighting with the Small Child to get him ready for school.  We go through the same thing EVERY SINGLE SCHOOL DAY.  

MONDAY
Do you have your school bag packed?  Yes
Do you have your diary?  Yes
Have you got your homework?  Didn’t have any
Your hat?   Yes
Packed your lunch?  Yes
Had some breakfast?  Yes
Have you got your swimming things? 
Yeah but I forgot to tell you I have a massive hole in my swimming shirt from last week and can’t wear it.
Oh  Ferfucksake!!!!
Race out the door asap to pop into K-Mart to pick up new sun protection swim shirt at the last minute.

TUESDAY:
Do you have your school bag packed?  Yes
Do you have your diary?  Yes
Have you got your homework? Don’t have any
Your hat? Yes
Packed your lunch? Yes
Had some breakfast? Yes
Ok go put on your shoes and let’s go.  Umm, where are my socks??
Oh  Ferfucksake!!!!
Fifteen minutes of hunting through the bomb site that is the Small Boy’s bedroom ensues looking for socks matching or otherwise.

WEDNESDAY:
Do you have your school bag?  Yes
Do you have your diary?  Yes
Have you got your homework?  Didn’t have any
Your hat?  Yes
Packed your lunch?  Yes
Had some breakfast?  Yes
Have you got your swimming things?  Yes
Ok go put on your shoes and lets go.
Drive to school and
Kiddo.. why is your swimming bag so small?   Ummm… I think I forgot my towel again.
Oh  Ferfucksake!!!!

THURSDAY:
Do you have your school bag packed?  Yes
Do you have your diary? Yes
Have you got your homework?  Yes, all done
Your hat?  Yes
Packed your lunch?  Yes
Had some breakfast?  Yes
Ok let’s go… go put on your shoes….
Approx 11am, ‘Hello this is the Small Child’s school, your son hasn’t bought his lunch with him (quick glance to kitchen reveals packed lunch box sitting neatly on counter) can you bring it up for him?
Oh  Ferfucksake!!!!

FRIDAY:
Do you have your school bag packed?  Yes
Do you have your diary? Yes
Have you got your homework? Didn’t have any
Your hat? Yes
Packed your lunch? Yes
Had some breakfast?   Errr, no.
Ok go put on your shoes and… oh you are kidding!  Go and eat some breakfast.
Oh  Ferfucksake!!!!

If it’s not forgotten socks, it’s shoes that can’t be found.  If it’s not a swimming towel that’s forgotten, it’s a library bag left behind.  If it’s not breakfast that’s uneaten, it’s junky snack food sneaked into the lunch box instead of fruit.  If it’s not a swim shirt with a massive hole in it, it’s a last minute request for a suitable box to make a diorama. If it’s not one stupid thing… it’s just something else.  Always.

So is it just me?  Am I expecting way too much of a Yr 3 child at 8 and a half years of age to take care of packing his school things himself?  He seems to remember just fine when he’s going to play at Grandma’s place to get all his swimming things, his DS, a charger, a stylus, a book, a DVD and other things to play with.  He seems able to remember on Tuesdays that he’s going to visit his little mates after school and has the recall to take whatever games and things he said he’d bring last week… 

My Mum probably used to do most of this shit for us and there were three of us to get ready, but I’m fairly confident she didn’t get out of bed every morning in so much pain she wishes she’d killed herself the night before instead of just knocking herself out with massive amounts of medication.   I’m just so sick of this angsty crap every school day and I am really sick of feeling like we start every day with me in a state of exasperation and him in a semi-permanent state of apology. 
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 I had a very proud moment as a parent on the weekend.  The Small Child is studying space at school this semester (space and insects, not sure of the correlation but ours is not to wonder why) so I’ve acquired two seasons of a documentary series called The Universe. 

We’ve watched the episodes on The Sun, Black Holes, Mars, The End of the Earth, Jupitor, the Moon and on the weekend we’d jumped to an episode called Beyond the Big Bang.

About half way through the episode –

Small Child: 
If the world was made from the Big Bang and everything spreading out as the universe goes bigger… How did God make it in seven days?
Mom: 
I have no idea kiddo… but I’m very glad you asked.  🙂

I don’t know why we’re sending him to the expensive Catholic school!  What are they teaching him anyways…  tut! tut!
You just don’t get much bang* for your buck these days!
(pun intended)
 

The Small Child (while half way through a cheeseburger at a rare visit to Hungry Jacks) :

"I have found the pickle!  And I’m not afraid to use it!"

Dinner + Nice Restaurant + Small Children = Disaster

Okay… ‘disaster’ might be overselling it a bit but the Small Child is having his birthday tomorrow and for ages he’s been asking to have a birthday party at Eleven-17 (which is a restaurant over near Surly’s pizza shop).  I lectured the Small Child on the expected level of behaviour at restaurants and we discussed how I didn’t really think it was a suitable venue to have a hoarde of kids even on a week night when they’re usually rather quiet.   And lemme tell you … it don’t get much quieter than a kinda upmarket cafe/restaurant on State of Origin night when there’s plenty of pubs with big screens in the local area.

Anyway he seemed committed to the concept so I made him an offer:  He could have three or four friends join us for dinner and he might find himself the recipient of an extravagant birthday present or… he could have a largish number of friends at which point he should probably expect a rather modest birthday gift.  Being of rather sound mind and judgement for one so lacking in years, the kid chose the small party and the ‘bigger’ pressier – and thank fuck for that I say.  Cos if only four little boys can cause that much noise and bother… I’m so glad we didn’t have a dozen of the little blighters along for the ride!

We (the adults – mostly family) outnumbered them three to one… but do you think we could keep them sitting still for ten minutes together?  It felt like a significant portion of the evening was spent remonstrating with them about the volume of their chatter, the constant fidgeting, and quelling the inexplicable desire to run circles around the restaurant.  Several times, the Small Child was reminded about our deal – he chose an adult restaurant for his dinner party and as such would have to act appropriate to his surroundings…. and he would reign himself in for oh… maybe 2.3 nanoseconds – but his Jackass friend (same one from the other week) simply does not give a shit and doesn’t listen to no bastard.  Yep a seven year old with selective hearing.  Yay!  Fun for the whole family… literally.

I know I’m going off on a tangent here … but  what do you do when your kid’s best mate is a disrespectful little arsehole?  He’s the one with whom I find myself having frequent conversations (over food, drinks, playthings etc) that go something like –

Me:   Would you kids like a glass of milk with your sandwiches?
Jackass:  I don’t want milk.   I want Coke.
Me:   I don’t have Coke.
Jackass:   Well… I only like chocolate milk.
Me:    Sorry. I don’t have chocolate milk either.
(5 mins later – called to have lunch)
Jackass:  Hey!  How come Angel got milk and I got water?

Little shit.  But even worse… what do you do when your kid is being invited around to play at Jackass mate’s place all the time and you know there ain’t much parental supervision goin’ on in them thar parts?   Last time he went for a playdate at Chez Jackass he came home with reports of a bloody nose from an elbow to the face on the trampoline (that’s to be expected from time to time) AND cuts to his feet – because Jackass had convinced the Small Child that smashing empty beer bottles out on the road would be fun.  Yep, the Small Child did the smashing because Jackass told him to and because Jackass wouldn’t do it himself because he’d gotten in trouble for last time.  ‘Boys will be boys!’ his Mum smilingly says by way of explanation.  Ahh… question:   What the fuck was my kid doing playing out in the street a stone’s throw from Creek Road without supervision in the first place?

Blargh… I honestly don’t really care about Jackass’ wellbeing (in fact if he dropped off the planet I wouldn’t mind over much…) and I’m pretty sure he’s going to grow up to be one of those mealy mouthed teenagers who totally ignores anything his Mum says and takes a swing at his Dad one day… but c’est la vie.  Not my kid = not my problem. 

Except of course the effect of exposure over time is showing more and more on the Small Child… and we are seriously not amused.
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