As I squatted on a nature strip the other night, wiping Sprog 1′s dog-poo-covered sandal on the wet grass, I cursed its deep treads. As I sniffed the floor of the car for stinky bits, I cursed the person who didn’t pick up their dog’s poo after it was extruded. As I realised Sprog 1 had trodden on her new library book with the dog-poo-covered sandal … I breathed a huge sigh of relief that Husband was finally home and made it his problem.
Aside from chipping me about how late I was running with my household duties of cooking dinner and putting the Sprogs to bed – brave man - Husband was quite stoic about scrubbing the dog poo off the library book. It’s still sitting on the kitchen bench where he left it. Every time I walk past, I contemplate moving it somewhere more appropriate but I just can’t bring myself to touch it. I’m saving my revulsion for when I adjourn to the nature strip again, this time with a stick, to scrape the rest of the dog poo out of the crevices of Sprog 1′s sandal that the wet grass didn’t reach. I wish I could just throw the filthy thing away, but it cost me $190, so I feel quite fiscally attached to it.
(Before you shake your head in dismay at me for spending that much on a pair of shoes for a child, Sprog 1 has size 36 feet and children’s shoe manufacturers – in their infinite wisdom – do not appear to make sensible sandals in that size, so I went to Ecco to get some and neglected to ask how much they were until they’d rung them up at the till – or whatever the new term is for computery payment contraptions - and I was too embarrassed to say I’d changed my mind.)
Sprog 1 has been copping it lately. I went absolutely mental at her that morning because she’d forgotten it was library day and misplaced her library book in her festy garbage dump of a room. My voice was raised, my eyes were flashing. The book-misplacement palaver happens every single farking week. And I am OVER IT. That very afternoon she lost her art-class sketchbook. Cue further ranting from Mummy about taking better care of her possessions.
Oh, and don’t get me started - yet again – on her inability to flush the farking toilet or put her dirty undies in the laundry basket instead of decorating her bedroom, the family room and lounge room with them.
It’s weeks like these that make me wish she got pocket money so I could bloody well dock it. But she doesn’t, so I can’t. Should she get pocket money (so I can bloody well dock it)? When do you start giving kids pocket money? Don’t they just spend it on plastic crap they never play with and lollies? When can you trust your child to be responsible with their money and dirty undies? I could do with some guidance right now.