It’s been a long week and I’ve had two large drinks so now is probably not the time for a post. But bugger it sometimes I just need to chatter. I’m not grizzling, I’ve done enough of that via this little old bloggie portal of mine and no doubt there’ll be more grizzling to come. No this is just a little bit of random rhubarb involving things I’ve thought about this week and would like to share.
But actually I advise you to tune out now. I just helped myself to another small (ish) drink. Which reminds me, I need to have a big night soon to guarantee a good succession of alcohol free days. I’m joking. Ish. Anyway, random shares, ready set GO.
My children broke my heart this week (they will do that at times won’t they).
Firstly my little boy got punched in the nose when tussling over a ball and then hit in his little nuts in the school playground. Same day, two separate incidents, two different perpetrators. He was – apart from a nose that bled spectacularly on the day and on and off ever since – actually fine. He wasn’t afraid to go back to school or bitter toward the boys who had hit him and he didn’t make a thing of it at home. I did though. I felt sick.
Initially I was worried that perhaps he had provoked the attack (I mean let’s face it, sometimes he annoys the hell out of me) or that he was indulging in a bit of diving (simulated injury as per soccer fields – he has been known to try it on). Then, when both those concerns were disproved, I felt guilty for doubting him and then horrified that my son might be the target of bullies. I am reassured that he’s not, that both incidents were of the spur of the moment, give me the ball, kind. But I still feel horrified. I wished that I was there when it happened but actually perhaps it’s best I wasn’t. I might have set a very bad example by calling the puncher a LITTLE SHIT and dragging him by the ear to the head master. One doesn’t drag children by the ear anymore. Which may or may not be a bit of a shame.
The thing is though, I don’t want my children to face animosity and pain and violence, but odds are they will, and probably worse than a snotted nose. Perhaps a bit of early roughing up is all part of important life learning. It hurts though. Him, but mostly me.
Then my daughter was involved into a protracted investigation into the drawing of penises. To her horror she was summonsed to the head master’s office a few times over it. She has long taken pride in being a good girl, having a clean slate insofar as head master summonses go. Turns out she didn’t draw a penis, she just drew a bottom, and then threw the drawing in the bin. No crime there. But she is still smarting over the indignity of public scandal. I feel her pain acutely; she is me all over as a child so I can slip with ease into her frame of mind. At the moment it’s not so peaceful. And when she cried in my arms last night over the trauma of it all (for stronger people it would be water off a duck, for us it’s trauma), I cried too. I have a little tear now. Tomorrow, I told her, we are to have forgotten about it all. And tomorrow she is allowed to draw my bottom.
Then my four year old, when I was driving her home from swimming, announced matter of factly that she felt weird and that she thought she might die this week. WHAAAAAAAAT? I had to stop the car and check her all over for lumps or occult bleeding. She was bewildered enough by my panic to say she’d said it “accidentally”. Too late, I am superstitious and officially had the creeps. Saying she might die is bad enough, but to add, “this week” just sent me into panic. I resolved to keep her within my sights at all times. The next morning I forgot in the midst of the school chaos and popped her on the bus, then remembered half way through the morning and had to listen to a bit of Dolly Parton to stop myself barging into
school with a large bag of cotton wool. The week is not out yet, and today she has developed a cough. I’m still worried and will be so until Monday. On and off. There is, however, drama in her genes.
I wish we all wore clothes like the ones in “The Belle of New York”. I’d feel like dancing too.
I am superstitious though. I’m always on the look out for synchronicity and have an affiliation with Carl Jung. Today I was making a cake and there happened to be EXACTLY the right amount of butter (115g to be precise) left of the butter block and EXACTLY the right amount of brown sugar left in the jar. I mean it, barely a scrape or a grain above the weights required by the recipe. I exclaimed, “That’s so weird, isn’t that weird?” to my husband. He raised an eyebrow that said, “There’s only one weird thing in this room and it’s not ingredients”. He’s used to my synchronicity hunting. I blame The Celestine Prophecy. Who remembers that?
Does anyone else get excited when they see their birthday on the milk carton? I do, then I remember that I don’t want anymore birthdays and just feel sad that another year has gone by and go and buy myself an early birthday present in the magazine aisle.
I am overloaded with ideas at the moment. Can you tell? Have you ever felt like that? Where everything that happens in your day feels like a slippery opportunity that must be grasped or forever lost? The notebook I carry with me everywhere has in the last few days been harassed more than usual and the writing in it appears kind of desperate. Am I on the verge of an epiphany? Or just a jumbly mess on the verge of panic attack?
I’ve never had a panic attack but almost did the other day when choosing door knobs (I mean door hardware, no one says knob these days). Suddenly I felt that the whole aesthetic of my new house (being built) hangs on what door hardware I chose. The wall of knobs swayed before me and I had to call my cousin-interiors-genius to come and rescue me. She valiantly swooped in, chose the hardware I would have chosen myself had I been of sound mind, and even called them knobs like a normal person. And laughed just I I did when we’d said ‘knob’ enough for it to be funny. Knob.
Maybe it’s the house build thing that has overloaded me – I feel another scrapbook session coming on. Here’s where I call on the dear friend with the organisational skills that would impress Barack Obama’s PA. She coming to stay ASAP.
What would I do without family and friends?
At the same time as all the ideas, I’m fast feeling the slip of the years as my children grow up (and get in punch ups and draw bottoms and stuff). Sometimes I think I’ll take them out of school and immerse myself in them and their learning and make the very most of every minute. Then I have a second though that involves me in a constant state of irritation and turning into a shouty shrew-mother lamenting lost me-time. So I decide that school is the place for them.
Speaking of irritation, gosh I get a lot of chores done when I’m in a huff.
And finally, the word nincompoop is definitely not used enough. Nor is splendid. The origin of nincompoop is unknown. Shame, I would like to meet the person who invented such a word.
Anyway that’s quite enough. Thank you for listening. What would this nincompoop do without you splendid people?