I went out last night with Sister for dinner. I’d been planning a booze-free Monday, but she arrived with a bottle of red. It would have been rude to refuse. But it didn’t leave much time/energy for creative thought. And my electric blanket beckoned (geez it’s hard to get up early on dark wintry mornings). Fortunately June 25 last year’s blog was a good yarn – boom-tish – so enjoy/shuddder …
A year ago THIS happened:
Yesterday passed in a blur of craft, cooking and medical emergencies at housegoeshome. Sprog 1 borrowed a book from the library on Friday called Me Make Monster and spent the next 36 hours begging to sew a “Basic Beastie”. Whoever decided to christen it a “Basic Beastie” – Jenny Harada according to the book cover – has a very cruel sense of humour.
There was nothing basic about the “Basic Beastie”. Not the road trip to Spotlight at Birkenhead Point for $30 worth of materials. Not the three hours spent making the bloody thing. Not the three hours the Sprogs spent whingeing about making the bloody thing (a bit rich considering it was their idea in the first place). Husband was the primary participant in the three-hour making marathon. I just swooped in at the end for 30 minutes of remedial sewing. But it was still extremely painful to hear/watch.
When the Sprogs weren’t whingeing they were needling (in the non-productive-to-craft-project sense). They’ve taken to admonishing each other in faux-adult tones, which never fails to shit the receiver up the wall. So, while Husband slaved over “fun” fur, I cooked and yelled at the Sprogs to give it a rest. As mentioned in yesterday’s premature post about an apple crumble recipe I hadn’t even tried (but which turned out to be awesomely delicious, I’m relieved to say), I cooked like a woman possessed to plough through the insane amount of inconvenient vegetables sent to me by Farmers Direct last week (and to impress my sister’s new bloke, who was coming to dinner).
As I stood at the kitchen sink questioning my sanity, I made an apple crumble, oven-fried chicken, coleslaw, mashed potato, cornbread muffins and hot crab dip. I will post the recipes on the blog when I don’t feel so monumentally broken by them.
All the food turned out sensationally well and the dinner was going swimmingly until Sprog 1 and her cousin started dancing to their favourite songs with swear words in them and Sprog 1 tripped and brained herself on a sharp corner. She thought it was amusing until she discovered she had a dent in her head. She’d even requested some apple crumble and ice-cream with her gaping wound. But dessert went untouched after Husband examined the dent and found it was 5cm long and 1cm deep. Sprog 1 went off her apple crumble at that point, especially when we started discussing at trip to casualty (in between mental gasps of horror at the slight of the wound).
It was only at the mention of “stiches” that Sprog 1 started to weep. Not from pain but from fear of someone Me Make Monstering the back of her head. An afternoon of sewing had given her a rather vivid picture of what lay ahead. And so ended Sunday night at housegoeshome, with three stitches for Sprog 1 at the local medical centre. A rather dramatic introduction for my sister’s new bloke to the family. Fortunately the chicken was finger lickin’ good.
POST-SCRIPT: Sprog 1’s head is good as gold now. And she’s completely (mentally) unscarred by the experience. But I thought you might enjoy reading what happened next – sorry about the bloody rubber gloves – which is this:
While Husband was sitting with Sprog 1 at the medical centre on Sunday night, holding her head together, he sent me an SMS:
HUSBAND: Sprog 1 wanted to say hello and tell you she was feeling ok
I was busy recording the medical emergency for the blog and missed the next SMS, which followed in quick succession and read:
Now, if I’d have noticed the second message (a Doctor Who reference and Sprog 1′s all-time favourite word) I’d have realized Husband had handed his phone to Sprog 1 so she could amuse herself – and say hello in her own special way – while she waited to get her head stitched back together. But I was off in my own bloggy world. So I just replied with:
ME: Give her a hug from me, and nonna – who is giving her 50 dollars for treats on her holiday
A reply came swiftly back:
HUSBAND: How much would she get if she broke her arm?
I naturally presumed I was talking to smart-arse Husband and became quite confused when he added the following postscript:
HUSBAND: Clom [another Doctor Who reference]
Husband isn’t quite the Doctor Who obsessive that his wife and first-born are, so I was perplexed. But I decided to let it go and simply replied:
ME: Nonna was giving money before injury
At this point I started questioning Husband’s sanity:
ME: Have you been stealing drugs from the medical centre?
HUSBAND: Max Capricorn
HUSBAND: Doctor Who override
ME: Shut up you mental patient
ME: Bug your poor concussed daughter instead.
But, as it turns out, my poor concussed daughter was bugging ME. And I’d just told her to “shut up you mental patient” Ooops. I’ve since apologized for asking whether she was on drugs, suggesting she was mentally ill and telling her to shut up.
The poor pet has a Frankenstein’s monster-style stitched wound on the back of her head. But in true Sprog 1 style she’s being incredibly stoic about it, despite having electronic insults being hurled by her mother. She just smiles wanly and takes her medicine/endures the Betadine dabbing.
Ah, I had so many plans for this week. I was going to get ahead. Instead I will be tending to Sprog 1′s wound (I thought Sprog 2 – the non-stoic one – was going to faint or vomit when she saw it yesterday afternoon), entertaining the Sprogs on Wednesday during the all-day teacher’s strike (I’m thinking Brave and yum cha), then minding Sprog 1 during her Thursday athletics carnival since I don’t see much point in her attending with a cracked head.
The things we do for love. And teachers.