I really don’t need more stress in my life, but sometimes it feels like I court it.
The eldest has become obsessed with drawing wounds on herself. She’s getting pretty awesome at it. I’ve suggested she consider a career as a special effects make-up artist.
It’s amazing what a kid can do with a red pen and some glue.
Egged on by the youngest … who’s a bit of a villain … I sent a pic of the eldest’s latest artwork to her dad, with a message saying “look what she did at school”.
Slightly ambiguous. OK, a lot ambiguous.
Then I got distracted by driving the kids home from art/skipping and putting together a convict outfit for the youngest to wear on an excursion.
Belatedly, I checked my messages and found several missed calls, plus increasingly plaintive messages from my ex wanting to know what the hell had happened to his beloved child’s hand at school.
I was too scared to return his call, so I made the eldest do it (and explain she was just fine) and proceeded to spend the rest of the night feeling SICK.
That really wasn’t a very nice thing to do, was it?
Song of the day: Michael Jackson “Bad”
PS I also have an actual injury of my own. I stir-fried my arm with hot oil last weekend. It’s healing now, but came up in giant, liquidy blisters that made me look like I’d caught ebola. People actually got up and changed seats on the train to get away from me.
I did both the front and back of the arm, from near the elbow to my thumb. Splatter marks EVERYWHERE.
Far out it hurt.