You think you’ve got your shit together as a parent and then one of them drops a dumbbell on his foot.
Ossie was away a couple of weeks ago and I went into superhuman mode. I reorganised all the presses in the house.. I now have a container specifically for birthday candles, although this will probably get lost on the occasion of it actually being someone’s birthday.
It was a Sunday and my old childminder/ friend/ sometime babysitter had called over and I used her to sit the kids while I got the ingredients for a roast dinner at 2pm .. not so organised I hear you tut. I flung it all together and we had some semblance of a civilised meal. I was just about to tidy away the dishes when I heard a bang followed by an ominous silence. I turned and saw the dumbbell on the floor and Rians horrified face. I opened my mouth to give out to him for possibly cracking the tiles when I saw the blood. I began to run in a circle of uselessness till Rebecca grabbed him and washed his toes to assess the damage properly. I mentally slapped myself in the face and went to look. His big toenail was completely cracked and that and the toe next to it were swelling and black. My sister arrived and we took him to the out of hours doctor to check… he put a plaster on it, proclaimed it fine and I paid €90. Am I a bad mother that I thought ‘there’s my fucking Ikea money gone’?
When Ossie got back, he owed me BIG and I made him come watch a Beatles documentary that my friend Susan had won tickets for on the radio; We are fans and even we were bored.. there was no music at all for the duration and so we blasted 500 different versions of Strawberry Fields all the way home. I was struck again by the lyrics no one I think is in my tree and it shall be carved on my urn or whatever cheap receptacle my family will shove me in when I’m gone. When we got back it was early and so decided to get full value from the babysitter (soz Rebecca) and slipped into the local for a few nightcaps. We got into bed at around 2am and one hour later Koray woke us puking in the toilet. Thus followed hours of Nurofen/ Calpol administering.. towels on sheets.. buckets on floor.. cuddles on demand. Not one for drama Koray exclaimed at one point that he wanted to go downstairs, get a knife from the drawer and stab himself to end the pain and I have to admit I had some empathy with him. Daddy Pig slept on peacefully as men do in times of parental stress (that or take an hour long shit). I spent the next day drinking coffee and washing bedding. That night I went up to my bed exhausted, only to find that Rian had fallen asleep there while his full bottle of warm milk trickled into his hair and my freshly changed sheets. Moses could have parted the amount of liquid in the bed and although I didn’t do physics in school, I did wonder how the volume I put in the bottle would equate to a king size bed being saturated through the memory foam right to the mattress. I changed the bed while keening and invoking every dead celebrity I could think of to give me strength, ie.. gorgeous George Michael, precious Prince and all the blessed members passed on from the BeeGees help me suffer this injustice. Ossie arrived up to question the strange noises coming from the bedroom… probably a little excited till he saw my face and the stripped bed. ‘I HAVE HAD IT WITH PISS, VOMIT AND MILK IN MY BED’ I roared and proceeded with the rhetoricals.. ‘Do you know how often I change sheets? Buy washing tablets? Use the dryer? He countered with his own rhetorical ‘any chance of a ride?’
The very next day the kids were all itching their heads and when I checked I saw they had nits for possibly the 4th time this year ARRRGGGHHH. For any of you that have dealt with this, it is horrendous.. the solution, the combing, the discovery bleurgghhh. Not to mention the motherfucking sheet changing! All this while I’m detoxing from wine and toxing (is that the opposite?) on Toblerones. I’m wondering if there is a humane and safe way to put kids to bed in a leakproof plastic container that somehow decontaminates them of nits etc.. a job for N.A.S.A.?