Monday, 5 March 2012

Manic Monday

Can someone please come to my house and force the three Screecher Creatures that are awake to get the fek outside and play while the weather is so nice?  No, I do not want to face paint.  Despite what I would like others to think, I detest make and do.   I need a break from SpongeBob Square Pants.  I want the Screecher Creatures to be nice(er) to each other.  To stop fighting.  Stop telling tales on each other over silly beggar stuff.  To stop arguing over bits of stick and string.  Else I will take the bits of stick and put them to good use.  Yes, that is a threat.  There is a huge trampoline outside, go and make use of it.  Stop dragging bits of muck and dirt in all over my floor.  When you use the bathroom, please, please, please try and improve your aim.  Pee in the toilet bowl and not all over the floor or the walls.  Please!  I’ve seen better kept public toilets.  It is Day 17 of your mothers “cycle” and she is in dire need of a cup of coffee and a lorry load of chocolate.    She is aware it is not your fault that she has, perhaps stupidly, decided to give up the aforementioned dark/milk/pink/white stuff for that fifth Irish Season aka Lent.   Today is a dangerous day.  I am sick eating yogurts and fistfuls of sweetened breakfast cereal for my sugar hits. I want a Kit Kat (even if it is made by Nestle) one of those gorgeous minty Viscounts, a chocolate-y custardy brioche yoke from Lidl that I buy for Screecher Creature No. 1’s breakfast.  But if I start on the pack of those delectable delights, I will eat all six.  And then go hunting for more.  Even cooking chocolate will not be safe.  I am tired after the usual half hour of getting aforementioned oldest to take off his uniform and do his homework.  The four year old is so cross, his eyebrows are jumping off his forehead.  He has embarked on his usual “stop looking at me/breathing the same air as me” tirade.  I wish his voice would break.  The two and a half year old fought a nap all afternoon and it is now catching up with him.  Although he is alert enough to “na, na, nana, na” at the contrary one and call him a baby.  The real baby of the house is enjoying forty winks after spending the morning in my arms.  He is teething and very out of sorts.  The fact that he has slept for more than four hours already today, very possibly means that he will waken at midnight for a couple of hours to clap his hands and practice that new Cowboy and Indian sound with his hand over his mouth.  The one his daddy taught him.    Why are Monday’s like this?  I have a severe case of couldn’t-be-arsed-itis, worse than usual that is.  Apart from a decent hit of chocolate, I would love a couple of hours to myself to read a book, to do a bit of scribbling without being interrupted to wipe a nose or an arse.  I would relish the chance to get out and pound the pavement for a half an hour as a troublesome ankle saw me having to give my run a miss over the weekend.  It doesn’t help that I have heard, back to back, three really good running songs on the radio.  Right now there is a Welly War taking place and I am in the middle of it.  Blue, green and Thomas the Tank Engine wellies are whizzing past my head like missiles.  A dandelion has just been shoved up my nose for a smell.  There are Rice Krispie buns mashed into the floor.  The lovely roast chicken dinner I gobbled down a couple of hours ago feels like it never happened.  I. Am. Starving!     Come on, Tuesday.  Any time you like now.  I get to go to my lovely breast feeding group in the morning, even if I’m sure they all think I’m a big faker as Screecher Creature No. 4 hasn’t fed in public for months now.  He’s afraid he’ll miss something.  And in the afternoon, with a bit of luck, we will have visitors.  Two big people for me to talk big people stuff with and two little people for the Screechers to play with.  Sinead, Laura, if you are reading this, yes, tis a cry for help!  P.S.  Don’t bring chocolate.  I’m feeling very delicate in myself.
Several hours later.  The above was written in real time.  Whatever that is!  I finally caved and gave in to their demands for face painting.  I did a pirate, a tiger and a Spiderman and they finally feked off out to play.  About twenty minutes later there was an unmerciful scream and Screecher Creature No. 3 came running with blood trickling out of his mouth.  Mixed in with his red Spiderman face, it took me a while to realise he was bleeding.  I think it was the nosebleed that started up next that gave it away.  He had a piece of pipe in his mouth (don’t ask!) and the inevitable happened.  He almost performed a DIY tonsillectomy.  There was a black pool of blood in the back of his throat and I found myself wondering why I didn’t just let them run riot in the house.  The other two had found the empty barrel that Mister Husband used last night for an emergency fill up of oil.  We had run out again. They had that shimmery desert look coming off them.  Again I found myself wondering why I didn’t just let them run riot in the house.  Mister Husband chose the next twenty minutes in which to appear.  Making sure Screecher Creature No. 3 was sufficiently recovered from his ordeal; I donned my sweats and hit the road.  Best time yet.  And I even managed to sprint the last few hundred metres or so home.  They are all peacefully slumbering now but there is the distinct sound of Red Indians coming from my bedroom…………………….       
              

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