Many moons ago I wrote a blog post called “Mummy yelled at me and I cried”.
It recalled the joy of Education Day at the kids’ primary school in 2012, when I started reading the kids’ “My Weekend” diaries and was chastened by their unique take on the family’s leisure activities:
One entry said: “Daddy yelled at me, then Mummy yelled at me and I cried.”
Although, one of her classmates had written this cheery entry: “My grandfather died. I got to have muffins and cupcakes.” (Her mum enjoyed reading that one.)
One of Sprog 1’s said: “Daddy sent me to my room and I cried”
Generally, the recounts of the weekend were more about what they didn’t get to do.
“I was sick so I had to stay home. It was boring”
“My sister was sick so I couldn’t go to the movies. It was boring.”
“We didn’t do anything. It was BORING BORING BORING.”
Yesterday was another one of those parental anger management days. Mummy doesn’t yell very often, but when she does she really lets loose.
The morning started innocently enough. The youngest announced that she’d accidentally left her school backpack at her father’s house. No problem, I said, we’ll just use one of your other backpacks.
But the youngest refused point blank to take a backpack that wasn’t maroon with the school logo on it.
Mummy should have just said: “NO! You WILL take another backpack.”
But Mummy didn’t. Mummy threw an almighty tantrum about going over to Daddy’s place to get the required effing backpack.
Undaunted by Mummy losing her shite, the youngest steadfastly stood her ground on the importance of the backpack being maroon with a logo. Mummy started slamming things and swearing a lot. The youngest remained unmoved.
Mummy’s mood wasn’t enhanced by having lost the key to the side gate, which meant the lawnmowing bloke couldn’t get round the back to do his thang.
Mummy went even further ape shite as she turned the house upside down for that farking key while simultaneously trying to get two cranky kids to band practice by 7.15am.
Mummy’s voice remained raised for the entire car trip, then she turfed the two cranky kids – one crying – unceremoniously out of the car at school and hooned back to the house to continue the search for the effing gate key.
It remained gawd knows where, but fortunately the lawnmowing guy managed to climb over and force it open from the back.
DD made the mistake of calling me at that juncture. He’d been expecting a lovey dovey chat as we hadn’t communicated verbally since he was struck down with a throat virus on Sunday.
He’s a brave man, because after I finished ranting about my farked morning he asked if I had PMT.
Dating rule No.1: Never, ever ask a woman if she has PMT when she’s cranky.
NO I DON’T HAVE PMT! Well, I might … but that’s NOT why I lost my shite.
I took a deep breath and managed not to lose my shite again. Instead, I politely queried whether he’d have been pissed off by the morning’s trevails. He wisely agreed he would have been.
Then Mummy hooned to Daddy’s house to get the effing empty maroon backpack. I mean HONESTLY, there wasn’t a single thing in it. And the only thing that was going in it was a lunchbag and drink farking bottle. WHY did it have to be a maroon one with a logo? WHY?
Then Mummy hooned to the school and exchanged the maroon backpack for the youngest’s enormous tenor saxophone, staggered to the car and hooned to work with seconds to spare.
Mummy was pretty grouchy for the rest of the day. And also a bit chastened. I hate it when I lose my shite and turn into a third child myself.
Song of the day: Billy Idol “Rebel Yell”