You’ll be fine by lunchtime
For my Mum is gonna kill me for this one.
Before I start, make no mistake, this is not and has never been an anonymous blog. I am so un-anonymous that my actual mother reads this. How many of you can say that? Eh, you bunch o’chickens?
I’m bloggin’ on the EDGE!
Now my Mum has only ever taken issue with two things I’ve ever said on the Misssives:
1. I said to one of the US readers of the Misssives that she should look out for her, as my parents were holidaying in the US. I said that they would know her because she would be wearing beige knee length shorts with an elasticated waist. About three months later I get an email from my Mum and it simply says this,
“I do not just have beige knee length shorts. Mum”
This little transgression of the fifth commandment happened in the comments box. So think on, commenters. Mum’s watching you too!
2. Last month’s assertion by myself that my folks wanted to call me Kenneth should I have been a boy, warranted an actual phone-call. According to the revisionist historical account by my mother, I would never have been a Kenneth, I would have been a Ewan. Hang on hang on, before you think I’m an out and out liar; she did say once that she liked Kenneth. I heard her. But, at last, during the ensuing conversation we get to the crux of the matter; it was Dad who stopped Mum from calling me Ken. And this is the man who called their cat Lech after the (then) incoming Polish President, Lech Walesa.
OK, so we’ve established that my folks read this blog. But I am still going to tell you this story after which my Mum is going to probably jump in the car and come round to my house in response.
I’m not going to mess about, I’m going straight to the punch: My Mum sent me to school with a broken arm.
The story goes like this. We go ski-ing for the first time ever. Skis are hired and applied to legs. Parents tell Misssy to stay where she is until they can safely escort her to the nursery slopes. Misssy ignores them, probably having watched a James Bond film the Saturday night before, and whizzes off, thinking she’s going to effortlessly slalom between pines dodging machine gun fire. Misssy whizzes off ….straight into an icy ditch.
Throughout the day Misssy complains of a sore wrist and whines. Unfortunately Misssy has spent most of her childhood whining, and no-one notices any difference.
Once back home, Misssy whines her way to bed. And then in the morning Misssy wakes up and re-commences whining.
Mum trots out a line which I’m ashamed to say I now use to my own kids when I think they are trying to cadge a sicky;
“You’re fine, go to school. You’ll be fine by lunchtime”
Misssy wasn’t fine by lunchtime. She
didn’t even get to lunchtime. She had PE first thing and whined to the PE teacher, when she tried to make her play netball. The teacher had a cursory look at the object of the whining, said the wrist looked a bit blue and asked Misssy to grasp her finger putting the one afternoon of First Aid training she had in college into action. Whining, Misssy failed to achieve the right intensity of grasp.Wrist is declared broken by a professional.
Mum is called.
Mum comes into school.
Mum takes Misssy to doctor.
Doctor confirms fellow professional’s diagnosis.
X-rays are done.
Cast is applied.
Mum feels terrible the rest of her life.
Daughter blogs about event.
Mum disowns daughter.
*Take THAT Dr Freud!
Fairly Bobbins
Sometimes I do not fit into the established mould of a Mum. There are things I do and things I do not do. My kids do seem to like me though, so I figure I’m doing OK so far.
However, I am being called to conform slightly. It is Junior Misssy’s 5th birthday in three weeks and she is angling for a party. And when I say angling, what I really mean is she’s spearheading a saturation PR campaign worthy of Hilary, Obama and McCain put together.
I swear she’s got spin doctors in her pay.
This last night:
“Mummy, have you noticed, you’ve not had to give me a row all day?”
I swear she’s got a campaign tune as well. She loves the Flight of the Conchords* and has been parodying the delightful “Cheer up Murray” at any given opportunity for our entertainment, replacing Murray’s name with family members names as appropriate.
I love that little beast, it goes without saying, but I hate kids parties. I hate being invited to them, I hate having to RSVP to invites for them, I hate having to buy trash presents in order to go to them. I hate they way Junior Misssy seems to be invited to one every bloody weekend.
But most of all I hate being coerced into holding one.
Reasons? Oh you want REASONS? I’ll give you REASONS!
1. Other people’s kids bug me. OK I like my friends’ kids and my nieces but other than that, they’re a bunch of unreasonable minibeasts.
2. I will have to tidy my house to showroom standards to pass the examining eyes of other mums who will cruelly judge me, if I appear slattern in any way.
3. My tidiest-it’s-ever-been-house will need rebuilt 30 minutes into the party.
4. Everyone will bring presents that will fill Junior Missy’s little bedroom to bursting. She’ll get far too much and when I try and siphon some off to charity shops or recycle them etc, she’ll notice. (This disdain excludes Boden and White Company offerings…please note).
5. Someone will buy her something horrifically messy, noisy, or requiring parental participation.
6. I have no small talk capabilities for the sea of mums that will appear at my door. I’ll have to pretend to be normal somehow. Some suggestions for key phrases I could use are greatly appreciated. There’s even the possibility that some of the clingier, fretful mums will stay for the duration. Aaargh! **
7. It’s not form to have alcohol at a kid’s party.
8. I will have to think of some party games to keep them from trashing the house, but on the day you can bet I’ll have forgotten to buy prizes and will have to run to the corner shop to buy a gazillion crème eggs during pass the parcel. I just have to hope nobody notices and keeps passing til I get back.
9. At least one kid will cry and it’s not really on to shove them out in the garden until they’ve stopped.
10. I’ll have to do really uncharacteristically organised things like, making invitations, sending invitations, sending thank you notes and remembering I’ve organised a party and not go out that day by mistake.
11. Junior Missy will have such a great time, she’ll want another one next year.
* Yes yes, she’s only five and I know there are some choice lyrics in there. Can I help it if my kids prefer “Flight of the Conchords”, My Name is Earl” and the “Mighty Boosh” to “In the Night Garden” and “Lazytown”?
** Maybe mums that have read this blog and are concerned about their child’s wellbeing
