Sadly our pet population has decreased by one, but that still leaves us twenty critters so we haven't lost our "Crazy Zoo" designation yet. It was one of Lindsay's hamsters that kicked off. I have to admit I am fond of the hamsters, and I have always sided with my kids against my husband when they wanted to bring another one (or any pet for that matter) into the house, so I was sorry when Honey the hamster died of old age.
Lindsay of course didn't want to touch the body, and Rob wouldn't have anything to do with it dead or alive, so it was up to yours truly to find a box and dispose of the corpse. I have to admit, as much as I like the hamsters, I did have to laugh when I hauled it's cold lifeless body out of the cage, because this one was in the cliched throws of rigor-mortis (go figure, that phrase wasn't on my spell check), flat on it's back, all four legs in the air, toes curled up, and it's mouth fixed in a menacing grimace. That is my sick sense of humour showing, so my apologies to hamster lovers everywhere. Moving on, I found a small box, fill it with bedding, gently place the hamster inside, taped everything up, and leave it to one side awaiting burial.
Rob came in and saw the box sitting on the counter. "Couldn't you find a smaller box ?" he complained,. "Do you have any idea how big a hole I am going to have to dig?". What was he expecting, a custom sized container ? Honestly, the box wasn't that big, it was about the size of two hard back novels. I tell you, considering the average age of a hamster is only two years, I think if some budding entrepreneur cornered the market in hamster coffins, they'd strike it rich. My own personal Einstein then asks why we can't stick the corpse in a sandwich bag. Honestly, that man has no class.
Finally, after much grumbling, Rob grabs the box, muttering under his breath and goes outside, with the kids in hot pursuit, to perform the burial. The next thing I hear is Lindsay scream, and I look out to see that Rob has taken matters into his own hands, or in this case feet, and stomped on the box to flatten it. Yet it is I who have been accused of not having a sensitivity gene. Thank goodness, the tape held and the box stayed more or less intact. I can only imagine the years of therapy sessions my children are going to have to endure in order to turn them into normal functioning beings. It is obviously way too late for my husband.
Tuesday 31 July 2012
Monday 30 July 2012
Spider In The Bath Tub
I can't guarantee that I can commit to a post a day as before, but a few stalwart fans have persuaded me to at least try posting something on a regular basis, so I'll have to see how it goes. Admittedly there were some blog-worthy moments this weekend, starting with Saturday morning when I'm in the shower.
I am not someone who scares easily, after all I have children, and spiders as a rule don't bother me, but when a big black spider lands on me in the shower, I will admit to venting a girly scream. My husband - bless him - ignored me, Lindsay was still asleep - not for much longer, but Sidney & Grady immediately rushed to determine the cause of my distress. "What's the matter mum?" Grady yelled. "It's a spider" I yelled back, trying to keep the offending creature at bay with my toe, "It's big, it's black and it has teeth". The part about the teeth was stretching the truth a bit, but I had to justify my uncharacteristic scream somehow.
Grady peeked behind the shower curtain - let out a girly scream of his own (at the spider, not me) and raced off. He was back a moment later with the spider catcher. Yes, there is such an implement, I bought it at Lee Valley Tools a few years ago and it works like a charm.
With Sid on the sidelines, encouraging him, he was able to catch the spider, teeth and all and remove it from the bath. He's my hero. My husband on the other hand, is a different story. I turn around, and there he is with the spider catcher and it's contents, sliding it around the shower curtain. I scream again, but this time with purpose. "What the hell are you doing ?" I refrained from adding "you idiot" but believe me it was implied. "I was going to put the spider down the drain" he explained. Really ? After all Grady's hard work to remove it, I don't think so. "Get it out of my shower and find somewhere else to dispose of it" I instruct him through gritted teeth. Honestly, some days it is just doesn't pay to get out of bed in this house.
I am not someone who scares easily, after all I have children, and spiders as a rule don't bother me, but when a big black spider lands on me in the shower, I will admit to venting a girly scream. My husband - bless him - ignored me, Lindsay was still asleep - not for much longer, but Sidney & Grady immediately rushed to determine the cause of my distress. "What's the matter mum?" Grady yelled. "It's a spider" I yelled back, trying to keep the offending creature at bay with my toe, "It's big, it's black and it has teeth". The part about the teeth was stretching the truth a bit, but I had to justify my uncharacteristic scream somehow.
Grady peeked behind the shower curtain - let out a girly scream of his own (at the spider, not me) and raced off. He was back a moment later with the spider catcher. Yes, there is such an implement, I bought it at Lee Valley Tools a few years ago and it works like a charm.
With Sid on the sidelines, encouraging him, he was able to catch the spider, teeth and all and remove it from the bath. He's my hero. My husband on the other hand, is a different story. I turn around, and there he is with the spider catcher and it's contents, sliding it around the shower curtain. I scream again, but this time with purpose. "What the hell are you doing ?" I refrained from adding "you idiot" but believe me it was implied. "I was going to put the spider down the drain" he explained. Really ? After all Grady's hard work to remove it, I don't think so. "Get it out of my shower and find somewhere else to dispose of it" I instruct him through gritted teeth. Honestly, some days it is just doesn't pay to get out of bed in this house.
Wednesday 11 July 2012
A Rant A Day ...
Rob left a comment on an earlier post, intimating that I had a bit of an outburst this past weekend. I have to admit I wasn't in the best of moods Sunday, and I blame lack of sleep through staying up all hours every night trying to get the damn cat in. Enough already, now he takes his chances with the neighbourhood coyote gang. Anyway back to yesterday evening, Sid and Grady have gone to bed and I am in the bathroom, trying unsuccessfully for the umpteenth time to close the cupboard door underneath the sink. Finally I'd had enough and lost my temper. Stuff came out of that cupboard so fast you couldn't see it for dust, and all the time it I was ranting about the f***ing cupboard this, and f***ing cupboard that. All of a sudden I realise I have an audience and look up to see the kids lined up in the doorway, pissing themselves laughing. Rob was standing there too, but he wasn't laughing. "What the hell are you doing ?" He asked, looking at the entire contents of the cupboard, two or three years of cosmetic and cleaning detritus strewn across the floor. Grady chimed in "I don't know dad, but don't stop her. This is hilarious".
I was in no mood for jokes, but it is extremely difficult to maintain the high ground when everyone is laughing at you. Rob mutters something under his breath - one more peep out of him about hormones or menopause, and I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Not to mention he is awfully brave, considering I now have access to a machete - and starts putting everything back in the cupboard. Sid and Grady return to their respective rooms still laughing. From there, they proceed to loudly grade my rant on a scale of 1 to 10 and debate where it fits in with previous dust-ups. Grady maintained it was right up there with my outburst at Christmas where I swept a display of Christmas Trees into oblivion, whereas Sid decided it was more akin to when I dumped all their toys into garbage bags and threw the lot outside. At one point I catch Sidney in Grady's room; she is making digging motions with her hands as she says to Grady "Who am I ?" and proceeds to let loose a string of expletives about the bathroom cupboard, egged on by howls of laughter from her brother. She can do me, better than I can. After I admonish her for swearing, and order her back to bed, I retreat downstairs to the sound of mocking laughter. It promises to be a long, long summer.
Sadly, this is my last blog. I didn't think it would happen, but I seem to have run out of original stories. My children, I'm sure will continue to drive me crazy, and I will continue to lose what precious little I have left of my sanity, but it becomes increasingly difficult to present an anecdote that is not a repetition of some earlier narrative. It would appear there is indeed a finite number of tales of mice and men. I'd like to extend a heartfelt thank you to everyone - to those I know and to those I don't, who have followed my trials and tribulations over the past few months. It has been a blast, and I sincerely hope you have enjoyed them as much as I have.
I was in no mood for jokes, but it is extremely difficult to maintain the high ground when everyone is laughing at you. Rob mutters something under his breath - one more peep out of him about hormones or menopause, and I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Not to mention he is awfully brave, considering I now have access to a machete - and starts putting everything back in the cupboard. Sid and Grady return to their respective rooms still laughing. From there, they proceed to loudly grade my rant on a scale of 1 to 10 and debate where it fits in with previous dust-ups. Grady maintained it was right up there with my outburst at Christmas where I swept a display of Christmas Trees into oblivion, whereas Sid decided it was more akin to when I dumped all their toys into garbage bags and threw the lot outside. At one point I catch Sidney in Grady's room; she is making digging motions with her hands as she says to Grady "Who am I ?" and proceeds to let loose a string of expletives about the bathroom cupboard, egged on by howls of laughter from her brother. She can do me, better than I can. After I admonish her for swearing, and order her back to bed, I retreat downstairs to the sound of mocking laughter. It promises to be a long, long summer.
Sadly, this is my last blog. I didn't think it would happen, but I seem to have run out of original stories. My children, I'm sure will continue to drive me crazy, and I will continue to lose what precious little I have left of my sanity, but it becomes increasingly difficult to present an anecdote that is not a repetition of some earlier narrative. It would appear there is indeed a finite number of tales of mice and men. I'd like to extend a heartfelt thank you to everyone - to those I know and to those I don't, who have followed my trials and tribulations over the past few months. It has been a blast, and I sincerely hope you have enjoyed them as much as I have.
Tuesday 10 July 2012
And So The Week Begins
For once I would like to glide gently into the week, instead of
feeling that I had been shot out of a cannon. My views on rising early
during the summer holidays are well documented, and my family are aware
of this, but still they persist with zealot like tenacity to get me out
of bed at sunrise. Sidney comes marching in at the crack of dawn and whips up her shirt to show me her bathing suit underneath and
proclaims "Look mum, I'm all ready for swimming " "That's nice dear" I reply groggily, "But the lessons don't start for another FOUR HOURS" . She is not to be deterred."Well, can I cuddle you instead?" the little keener asks. I am barely coherent, but I think I replied "Sure whatever, just let me sleep". Fast forward half an hour and I wake to a persistent buzzing in my ear, this time it is my son. "Mum, Mum, swimming lessons start today, what time do you want me to wake you up ?" This boy is either fundamentally stupid, or possesses a Machiavellian intelligence that is way beyond me.
Knowing that my chances of slumber now lie between slim and five eighths of bugger all, I reluctantly head to the shower and then to the kitchen gasping for my first cup of coffee. I notice that the dog food bowl is empty, and call upon Sidney to feed Badger. Apparently the dog food is so low in the bin that she can't reach it. It would have been nice to know this before Rob went grocery shopping, but still. Fine, I ask Grady to feed the dog instead and head gingerly down to the basement & my computer, clutching my little cup of nectar of the gods. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, Grady hurtles out of the crawlspace screaming, and backs right into me. It is only due to my ninja like reflexes that I was able to save my coffee. "There are two mice in there" he hollers, panic stricken, waving the kibble scoop in the air. (At this point I'd like to digress and say "Curse you ! cousin Jen", who just told me on the weekend that she likes my mice stories the best !) I am in no mood to humour the boy and I tell him to feed the dog, and avoid the mice. Honestly, for someone who wields a machete and is ready to face down an intruder, he is a bloody wimp when it comes to rodents. I blame his father.
He does manage to catch one of the mice in the plastic scoop and fling it to the far reaches of the crawlspace. I sympathise with that mouse, I feel that my week started the same way. The fate of the second mouse is uncertain. For all I know - or care - he could still be in the dog food, I guess we'll find out tomorrow. Meanwhile when my erstwhile husband arrives home this evening, Grady regales him with tales of courage and daring. Rob however turns to me and demands to know why I allowed the mice to be let loose back in the crawlspace and why I didn't capture them myself and throw them outside instead. I can tell him exactly why. That crawlspace door is 18" wide and 3' tall, there is no way on earth I'm squeezing my ass through that in order to catch mice. I have just one word for my husband - Machete !
Knowing that my chances of slumber now lie between slim and five eighths of bugger all, I reluctantly head to the shower and then to the kitchen gasping for my first cup of coffee. I notice that the dog food bowl is empty, and call upon Sidney to feed Badger. Apparently the dog food is so low in the bin that she can't reach it. It would have been nice to know this before Rob went grocery shopping, but still. Fine, I ask Grady to feed the dog instead and head gingerly down to the basement & my computer, clutching my little cup of nectar of the gods. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, Grady hurtles out of the crawlspace screaming, and backs right into me. It is only due to my ninja like reflexes that I was able to save my coffee. "There are two mice in there" he hollers, panic stricken, waving the kibble scoop in the air. (At this point I'd like to digress and say "Curse you ! cousin Jen", who just told me on the weekend that she likes my mice stories the best !) I am in no mood to humour the boy and I tell him to feed the dog, and avoid the mice. Honestly, for someone who wields a machete and is ready to face down an intruder, he is a bloody wimp when it comes to rodents. I blame his father.
He does manage to catch one of the mice in the plastic scoop and fling it to the far reaches of the crawlspace. I sympathise with that mouse, I feel that my week started the same way. The fate of the second mouse is uncertain. For all I know - or care - he could still be in the dog food, I guess we'll find out tomorrow. Meanwhile when my erstwhile husband arrives home this evening, Grady regales him with tales of courage and daring. Rob however turns to me and demands to know why I allowed the mice to be let loose back in the crawlspace and why I didn't capture them myself and throw them outside instead. I can tell him exactly why. That crawlspace door is 18" wide and 3' tall, there is no way on earth I'm squeezing my ass through that in order to catch mice. I have just one word for my husband - Machete !
Monday 9 July 2012
This Little Piggy Went To Market
Two weeks into the summer holiday, and somewhere along the way my job title changed from "Mother" to "Servant". By Saturday morning I'd had enough and was ready to launch into which ever offspring pushed the wrong button first, which in this case happened to be Lindsay. I had asked her to empty the dishwasher - one of her few appointed tasks for which she gets paid the big bucks each month. I thought once she had done that, it wasn't a big stretch of the imagination for her to then place the dirty plates and mugs sitting on the counter into the dishwasher. I must have forgotten to switch on the flashing neon sign, because when I entered the kitchen a while later, after completing my umpteenth load of laundry, the dishes are still on the counter and Lindsay is reclined in front of the TV. That was enough to send me into a tailspin, and I launch into a rant. "When I was your age, I had 3 part time jobs, taught a first aid course, helped with the housework, yadda, yadda, yadda. Meanwhile you can't even think to put dishes in to the dishwasher etc etc". When I get on a roll, it's hard to stop.
When I had finished with Lindsay, I cast a baleful glance around to see who would be my next target and I spied my pencil sharpener sitting on the dining room table. Right, so Grady it was. "Grady" I hollered "Get down here. What is this ?" I said, smacking the pencil sharpener down on the table to make a point, but before he had a chance to open his mouth, I continued "It's my pencil sharpener, that's what it is. What is it doing on the dining room table?" Again, before he was able to answer, I carried right on. "You always borrow my things and never return them, how many times do I have to tell you that?" By this time Lindsay and Grady are exchanging WTF ? glances, and Rob is doing his best to shepherd them out of the kitchen, muttering something under his breath. I distinctly heard "Your mother" and "Hormonal", those two snatches of conversation alone would have been enough to get him smacked upside the head with a frying pan had he lingered in the kitchen. For the record I was pissed off, not hormonal, and there is a difference.
Fast forward an hour or two and we are getting ready to leave for a family baby shower. I am already pissed off - again - because I had just discovered that I had wrapped the baby gift in "Happy Birthday " paper. Stupid, stupid, stupid. All I'd seen was the Winnie-The-Pooh design, I hadn't noticed the rest of it. Apparently my daughter had observed the mistake, but it didn't occur to her to mention it.
Anyway, I climb in the van, kicking off my shoes as I go (I drive bare feet, rightly or wrongly it was how I was taught to drive) and Rob trying to be helpful, closes the van door. The only problem is, I hadn't moved my left foot and it was caught in the door as he slammed it shut. My immediate reaction is to scream "F***ing Hell", at the top of my lungs, much to Rob's dismay. You are forgiven at this point for thinking that Rob breaks into an abject apology, or perhaps even an inquiry as to if my toes are still attached. No, his immediate concern, as he casts worried glances over his shoulder, is if the neighbours heard my outburst. He then climbs in the van and starts to lecture me. That's right, HE slams MY foot in the door, and then proceeds with a lecture about my language. Even Grady, who seems to have forgotten the incident with the pencil sharpener, and must have been feeling reckless, chimes in with "Most normal people would just say ouch mum". We'll see about that, the next time I slam an appendage of his in the door.
We had a great time at the family event. One of our cousins told me, that although she would love to invite us over, she was worried about what would go in my blog. All this time I thought the reason we didn't get invited places was because of my children, and now I discover it's really because of me !! So this one goes out to Jennifer and Aunt Jackie, I'm so glad you enjoy my posts.
... and for those that care - obviously not my husband - my toes are still attached, although somewhat bruised. It will be a long time before I can play "This Little Piggy Went To Market" again.
When I had finished with Lindsay, I cast a baleful glance around to see who would be my next target and I spied my pencil sharpener sitting on the dining room table. Right, so Grady it was. "Grady" I hollered "Get down here. What is this ?" I said, smacking the pencil sharpener down on the table to make a point, but before he had a chance to open his mouth, I continued "It's my pencil sharpener, that's what it is. What is it doing on the dining room table?" Again, before he was able to answer, I carried right on. "You always borrow my things and never return them, how many times do I have to tell you that?" By this time Lindsay and Grady are exchanging WTF ? glances, and Rob is doing his best to shepherd them out of the kitchen, muttering something under his breath. I distinctly heard "Your mother" and "Hormonal", those two snatches of conversation alone would have been enough to get him smacked upside the head with a frying pan had he lingered in the kitchen. For the record I was pissed off, not hormonal, and there is a difference.
Fast forward an hour or two and we are getting ready to leave for a family baby shower. I am already pissed off - again - because I had just discovered that I had wrapped the baby gift in "Happy Birthday " paper. Stupid, stupid, stupid. All I'd seen was the Winnie-The-Pooh design, I hadn't noticed the rest of it. Apparently my daughter had observed the mistake, but it didn't occur to her to mention it.
Anyway, I climb in the van, kicking off my shoes as I go (I drive bare feet, rightly or wrongly it was how I was taught to drive) and Rob trying to be helpful, closes the van door. The only problem is, I hadn't moved my left foot and it was caught in the door as he slammed it shut. My immediate reaction is to scream "F***ing Hell", at the top of my lungs, much to Rob's dismay. You are forgiven at this point for thinking that Rob breaks into an abject apology, or perhaps even an inquiry as to if my toes are still attached. No, his immediate concern, as he casts worried glances over his shoulder, is if the neighbours heard my outburst. He then climbs in the van and starts to lecture me. That's right, HE slams MY foot in the door, and then proceeds with a lecture about my language. Even Grady, who seems to have forgotten the incident with the pencil sharpener, and must have been feeling reckless, chimes in with "Most normal people would just say ouch mum". We'll see about that, the next time I slam an appendage of his in the door.
We had a great time at the family event. One of our cousins told me, that although she would love to invite us over, she was worried about what would go in my blog. All this time I thought the reason we didn't get invited places was because of my children, and now I discover it's really because of me !! So this one goes out to Jennifer and Aunt Jackie, I'm so glad you enjoy my posts.
... and for those that care - obviously not my husband - my toes are still attached, although somewhat bruised. It will be a long time before I can play "This Little Piggy Went To Market" again.
Friday 6 July 2012
Thursday's Aren't Finished With Me Yet
Thursdays strike when you least expect it. Maybe it was because Monday was a holiday, but I wasn't prepared for today. I stayed up until 1:00 A.M.last night, or more technically this morning, trying to get the damn cat in, but to no avail. I'm sure he was sleeping over at the neighbours again. I'm ready now to tell them just to keep the bloody cat, and save me the hassle. We have racoons, foxes and even the odd coyote roaming the streets at night, so I hate leaving the cat out, and if the neighbours didn't keep feeding him against our wishes, we might have a chance of getting him in. Anyway, I digress, but thank you for indulging my rant for today.
So now you know the reason I am tired and irritable. Meanwhile, Lindsay needed to be at Hannah's house today by 9:30 A.M. for an event they were attending, and last night she asked me to wake her up at 9:00 this morning. I explained that was a bad plan because I didn't intend to be up by that time myself. Her next suggestion was that her father call the house at the appointed time, I nixed that too because hello ? the phone is right beside my bed. I told her to use her alarm clock or better still, leave a note for Grady, because he'd like nothing more that to wake up his sister. He is like his father in that respect, and has been known to stand beside Lindsay's bed and bellow down to us, at top volume, "Lindsay is still sleeping, would you like me to wake her up?" Which of course has the desired effect, regardless of what our answer may have been.
Obviously other people, not privy to my wish for my slumber to continue undisturbed, had no qualms about calling the house at an ungodly hour. For me, during the holidays, an ungodly hour is any time before 11:00 A.M. (Extended family members please take note!). Lindsay was still home when the phone rang, and in her mad dash to grab it before it woke me (which was already too late) knocked a photo frame off her dresser. So if the strident clanging of the phone hadn't roused me, the sound of breaking glass definitely would have. Like I've said before, I hate Thursdays. I immediately leap out of bed, yelling at everyone not to move, I don't want to start my day with pulling slivers of glass out of my children's feet. I send Grady downstairs for the vacuum cleaner, while Lindsay starts picking up the bigger chunks of glass. I am frantically vacuuming up tiny shards of glass, when one of my children suggests that I might like to put some clothes on first. Oops, didn't even think about that in my haste. I thank my lucky stars, none of the kids had friends sleeping over last night, or this would really have been a Thursday for the history books.
I have to finish by saying that Thursdays aren't all bad, because today my blog reached 10,000 hits from 30 different countries, so I would like to say a heartfelt thank you to all my readers. I do hope you continue to enjoy my posts. Have a great weekend everyone, and I'll be back on Monday.
So now you know the reason I am tired and irritable. Meanwhile, Lindsay needed to be at Hannah's house today by 9:30 A.M. for an event they were attending, and last night she asked me to wake her up at 9:00 this morning. I explained that was a bad plan because I didn't intend to be up by that time myself. Her next suggestion was that her father call the house at the appointed time, I nixed that too because hello ? the phone is right beside my bed. I told her to use her alarm clock or better still, leave a note for Grady, because he'd like nothing more that to wake up his sister. He is like his father in that respect, and has been known to stand beside Lindsay's bed and bellow down to us, at top volume, "Lindsay is still sleeping, would you like me to wake her up?" Which of course has the desired effect, regardless of what our answer may have been.
Obviously other people, not privy to my wish for my slumber to continue undisturbed, had no qualms about calling the house at an ungodly hour. For me, during the holidays, an ungodly hour is any time before 11:00 A.M. (Extended family members please take note!). Lindsay was still home when the phone rang, and in her mad dash to grab it before it woke me (which was already too late) knocked a photo frame off her dresser. So if the strident clanging of the phone hadn't roused me, the sound of breaking glass definitely would have. Like I've said before, I hate Thursdays. I immediately leap out of bed, yelling at everyone not to move, I don't want to start my day with pulling slivers of glass out of my children's feet. I send Grady downstairs for the vacuum cleaner, while Lindsay starts picking up the bigger chunks of glass. I am frantically vacuuming up tiny shards of glass, when one of my children suggests that I might like to put some clothes on first. Oops, didn't even think about that in my haste. I thank my lucky stars, none of the kids had friends sleeping over last night, or this would really have been a Thursday for the history books.
I have to finish by saying that Thursdays aren't all bad, because today my blog reached 10,000 hits from 30 different countries, so I would like to say a heartfelt thank you to all my readers. I do hope you continue to enjoy my posts. Have a great weekend everyone, and I'll be back on Monday.
Thursday 5 July 2012
When Pigs Fly
You may have noticed some interesting phenomenon (thank goodness for an online dictionary) this weekend, something along the lines of flying pigs and hell freezing over. Those are the only reasons I can think of that caused my son to clean his bedroom. This was a total surprise because he did it unbidden. I will freely admit that in the past I have bribed, blackmailed and even threatened bodily harm in order to get him to tidy his room, but all to no avail. You can imagine my surprise when he came down and asked for a garbage bag. I was immediately suspicious, I thought maybe he was planning on doing away with his sister - I'm still nervous about that machete - but no, he wanted it because he was about to tackle his room. I'm sure glad I was sitting down when he told me that, I could have taken a nasty tumble when I passed out from shock.
Rob was delighted with this turn of events, and kept running downstairs to give me regular updates. Having got over the initial shock, I was trying to take advantage of an otherwise quiet afternoon and read a really good book. It really doesn't take much to make my husband happy, and the fact that his son was not only tidying his room but also cleaning out his sock & underwear drawer had him positively ecstatic.
I should have known that I hadn't fallen all the way down the rabbit hole, when afterwards my son approached me. "Mum, now that my room is clean" he began cautiously, "How about I get an extra $2 allowance every week for keeping it clean". I knew it, the little bugger always has a hidden agenda. However I was prepared and had a quick response, "I'll increase your allowance" I said "Right after you pay me $2 for every week your room was untidy" That shut him down right quick. The secret to successful parenting, you have to think on your feet. I have to say, Rob is useless at that, if he is going to issue a threat he needs to script it first. His very best was when he yelled at the kids "If you don't stop that I'm going to .. splutter, splutter .. I'd don't know what I'm going to do, but I'll do something". That's the way to strike fear into their little hearts.
Anyway back to my entrepreneurial (and that was without the aid of the online dictionary) son, I swear that boy is going to head up the IMF one day. He is always looking at ways to make a quick buck. He and his sister decided one day to draw pictures and sell them. My sister thought it was sweet and actually paid the little gold-diggers, setting us up nice & proper. When it was my turn to fork over the money, Grady asked me what I'd like him to draw. I told him I'd like a sunset picture. Ten minutes later he returns with a pencil sketch and tried to charge me a dollar. When I complained that it was no good as a sunset because it was in black and white, he didn't miss a beat, telling me that colour would cost me extra.
I'm really hoping that one day he will strike it rich, and keep his doting parents in the lifestyle to which they would like to become accustomed.
Rob was delighted with this turn of events, and kept running downstairs to give me regular updates. Having got over the initial shock, I was trying to take advantage of an otherwise quiet afternoon and read a really good book. It really doesn't take much to make my husband happy, and the fact that his son was not only tidying his room but also cleaning out his sock & underwear drawer had him positively ecstatic.
I should have known that I hadn't fallen all the way down the rabbit hole, when afterwards my son approached me. "Mum, now that my room is clean" he began cautiously, "How about I get an extra $2 allowance every week for keeping it clean". I knew it, the little bugger always has a hidden agenda. However I was prepared and had a quick response, "I'll increase your allowance" I said "Right after you pay me $2 for every week your room was untidy" That shut him down right quick. The secret to successful parenting, you have to think on your feet. I have to say, Rob is useless at that, if he is going to issue a threat he needs to script it first. His very best was when he yelled at the kids "If you don't stop that I'm going to .. splutter, splutter .. I'd don't know what I'm going to do, but I'll do something". That's the way to strike fear into their little hearts.
Anyway back to my entrepreneurial (and that was without the aid of the online dictionary) son, I swear that boy is going to head up the IMF one day. He is always looking at ways to make a quick buck. He and his sister decided one day to draw pictures and sell them. My sister thought it was sweet and actually paid the little gold-diggers, setting us up nice & proper. When it was my turn to fork over the money, Grady asked me what I'd like him to draw. I told him I'd like a sunset picture. Ten minutes later he returns with a pencil sketch and tried to charge me a dollar. When I complained that it was no good as a sunset because it was in black and white, he didn't miss a beat, telling me that colour would cost me extra.
I'm really hoping that one day he will strike it rich, and keep his doting parents in the lifestyle to which they would like to become accustomed.
Wednesday 4 July 2012
So Long, Rat Bastard
I was talking to my sister when we were all out at breakfast on Saturday and she mentioned how upset she was that I had referred to my husband as the "Rat Bastard" in my blog. I chuckled, "It suits him tho' doesn't it" and then I realised Jackie wasn't joking. She was genuinely concerned. "Did you actually read my blog ?" I asked. "You know the part where he deliberately scared the cat the second time, so that it jumped out of the window and caused me grievous bodily harm?" I took that opportunity to show her the claw marks raked down my arm. I would have shown her my other injuries, but after all it was a family restaurant. "He deserved that name and then some". Not to mention some of the other lessor known stunts that he has pulled in the past, like the time after an almighty great row (on a wedding anniversary no less), when he admitted he had been tempted to bash my head in with a shovel. My husband is usually such a gentle soul, I can't remember what I did to provoke such heinous thoughts, but it is a testament to our marriage that we can laugh about it.
Anyway, it appeared that my sister wasn't going to budge, she still thought it was dreadful that I called my husband a Rat Bastard. God knows what she'd think, if she heard what I call him, that I can't print in my blog.
I should have known better, because for all my married life, she has always referred to my husband as "Poor Rob", not from a financial standpoint, (although with three kids that is also true) but because he is saddled with me. My sister doesn't understand that these have been the best years of his life, whether he realises it or not. My other sister Lesley, feels the same way, as far as she is concerned, Rob can do no wrong. My only sympathetic sister is Patricia, and she lives in England, so that doesn't help much.
Even my father sided with my husband, in fact at our wedding, I think he gave the shortest speech ever, and I have it memorized. He stood up, raised a glass and announced "My congratulations to Kelly, my commiserations to Rob". How's that to make a bride feel special ?
So in an attempt to appease my sister, whom I love dearly, and she will be reading this with her coffee in the morning, I shall do my best to refrain from calling my husband a Rat Bastard, even when he deserves it. If anyone can offer up any other suitable term of endearment, I am open to suggestions.
Anyway, it appeared that my sister wasn't going to budge, she still thought it was dreadful that I called my husband a Rat Bastard. God knows what she'd think, if she heard what I call him, that I can't print in my blog.
I should have known better, because for all my married life, she has always referred to my husband as "Poor Rob", not from a financial standpoint, (although with three kids that is also true) but because he is saddled with me. My sister doesn't understand that these have been the best years of his life, whether he realises it or not. My other sister Lesley, feels the same way, as far as she is concerned, Rob can do no wrong. My only sympathetic sister is Patricia, and she lives in England, so that doesn't help much.
Even my father sided with my husband, in fact at our wedding, I think he gave the shortest speech ever, and I have it memorized. He stood up, raised a glass and announced "My congratulations to Kelly, my commiserations to Rob". How's that to make a bride feel special ?
So in an attempt to appease my sister, whom I love dearly, and she will be reading this with her coffee in the morning, I shall do my best to refrain from calling my husband a Rat Bastard, even when he deserves it. If anyone can offer up any other suitable term of endearment, I am open to suggestions.
Tuesday 3 July 2012
What Was He Thinking ?
Some friends of my sister are moving back to England, and rather than ship their furniture overseas, they were getting rid of most of it. We went up this weekend to give my sister a hand moving some items into her house. I stayed at her house with the kids, while my husband and brother-in-law got the easy job of hauling furniture in volcanic like heat. When they returned, my husband was excited to show me a lovely table he had been given, which was now sitting in my sister's driveway. Almost as an after thought he muttered quietly that the knives on top of the table were now ours as well - or more specifically for Grady.
I wasn't really paying attention - my focus was more on the breakfast that my sister had promised us after all the moving was finished, so I was somewhat shocked when Grady walked in with a shit-eating grin carrying a machete. Yes, you read correctly, a machete. This thing had an 18" * 4" blade, and was used to hack through the jungles of Costa Rica. The machete alone was enough to cause me to hyper-ventilate, but then I see what Grady has in his other hand, some kind of ceremonial dagger, at least a foot long, with a wickedly curved point. By now I'm apoplectic, looking accusingly at my sister. "I know my husband is an idiot" I said "But I would have credited you with a bit more sense. What on earth were you thinking, giving a machete and a dagger to a ten year old?" Lesley's response was that she thought he could hang them on his wall. Of course, that all makes sense now, let him keep his weapons of mass destruction in his bedroom.
As I am shooting my husband hostile looks, promising him that he and I are going to have a "little talk" when we get home, Grady decides to chime in. "If a killer breaks in mum" he begins, "All I had to defend myself with before, was my multi-function pocket tool. Now I can hack his arms off with my machete". This comment earns Rob another malevolent glare. Just what every mother wants to hear from her son. My sister, in a vain attempt to avert the impending hostility, suggested that he could always keep his machete at her house, as if Grady was going to give it up that easily, especially with all these marauding killers on the loose. I think even she, who has lived a lifetime of never being wrong, was beginning to see the error of her ways, particularly when Grady asked her if he could use his machete to cut down one of her trees.
Eventually, the knives were replaced in their scabbards and stored safely in the van. Meanwhile, I was fervently hoping that we didn't get pulled over on the way home - a holiday weekend and the police are out in force - and get charged under the offensive weapons act. I'm still undecided as to where we are going to keep them, but I'm even more concerned that by the end of the summer, I may be sorely tempted to use them myself. Meanwhile my husband thinks that all is forgiven, just because he provided me with material for my blog. All I can say is what the hell was he thinking ?
I wasn't really paying attention - my focus was more on the breakfast that my sister had promised us after all the moving was finished, so I was somewhat shocked when Grady walked in with a shit-eating grin carrying a machete. Yes, you read correctly, a machete. This thing had an 18" * 4" blade, and was used to hack through the jungles of Costa Rica. The machete alone was enough to cause me to hyper-ventilate, but then I see what Grady has in his other hand, some kind of ceremonial dagger, at least a foot long, with a wickedly curved point. By now I'm apoplectic, looking accusingly at my sister. "I know my husband is an idiot" I said "But I would have credited you with a bit more sense. What on earth were you thinking, giving a machete and a dagger to a ten year old?" Lesley's response was that she thought he could hang them on his wall. Of course, that all makes sense now, let him keep his weapons of mass destruction in his bedroom.
As I am shooting my husband hostile looks, promising him that he and I are going to have a "little talk" when we get home, Grady decides to chime in. "If a killer breaks in mum" he begins, "All I had to defend myself with before, was my multi-function pocket tool. Now I can hack his arms off with my machete". This comment earns Rob another malevolent glare. Just what every mother wants to hear from her son. My sister, in a vain attempt to avert the impending hostility, suggested that he could always keep his machete at her house, as if Grady was going to give it up that easily, especially with all these marauding killers on the loose. I think even she, who has lived a lifetime of never being wrong, was beginning to see the error of her ways, particularly when Grady asked her if he could use his machete to cut down one of her trees.
Eventually, the knives were replaced in their scabbards and stored safely in the van. Meanwhile, I was fervently hoping that we didn't get pulled over on the way home - a holiday weekend and the police are out in force - and get charged under the offensive weapons act. I'm still undecided as to where we are going to keep them, but I'm even more concerned that by the end of the summer, I may be sorely tempted to use them myself. Meanwhile my husband thinks that all is forgiven, just because he provided me with material for my blog. All I can say is what the hell was he thinking ?
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