I went to see the movie ‘Mental’ last week, and now I can relate because my kids are driving me completely and utterly nuts today. I’m not talking about the run of the mill “Oh what now?” kind of nuts. I’m talking about driving-me-to-the-brink-of-insanity-with-a-one-way–ticket kind of nuts. It’s going to be a short trip.
My three school aged children had to be scraped out of bed with a shovel this morning. The eldest, nine year old Ethan, fell straight out of bed and onto the couch, probably expecting me to get his breakfast for him while he took his time to yawn, scratch his bum and pee like Phar Lap. Yeah, right! He gets his own toast every morning, but still manages to recline on the couch and watch ‘Sunrise’ for the sixty seconds it takes for his toast to pop. That’s just the epitome of lazy to me – not being stuffed to stand up until the toast is hurtled out of the toaster one minute later.
Number two, Rylan, is very tired at the moment. And when he gets tired the entire planet is against him and everything is ‘borwing’. Getting up is ‘borwing’, making his toast is ‘borwing’, eating it is ‘borwing’ and so on. We always know when Rylan is having a bad day because we can’t see his seven year old skinny body for the thunder cloud that hovers over him. No one is allowed to look at him, breathe near him or, god forbid, smile at him. He is happy to walk around all day with his hair resembling the crest of a cocky because brushing his hair is ‘borwing’. His frown is so intense that he develops a mono-brow, leaving me to wonder how my son ended up resembling Burt from Sesame Street.
Number three is five year old Lachlan (Lachy). I call him my gorgeous, little bubble because he is happy and giggly and seems to float on the breeze, making people smile as he wafts past them. This morning, however, he was a bubble-head. Ten minutes after sending him to his room to get dressed and tidy his room, I find him jumping on his bed in his undies. He fell to the ground in a pathetic heap when asked to find his missing shoe and then failed to put his shoes on the correct feet for the 365th time in a row.
Number four, Callum, is three. Enough said.
Just before we leave for school, mummy has a melt-down. Not a teary, weepy melt down. Or even a Chernobyl type melt down. No, it was much more than that. It was a melt down that would have won me the Oscar had a camera been present, complete with huffing and puffing, tears, shaking and bulging forehead veins. I am expecting DOCS to knock on the door any minute. Of course I will lie and tell them that it was a disturbed neighbour, not me. And my children will support me because they are scared shitless of the crazy lady they met for the first time this morning. My boys have never even seen me cry before, so this performance was a real eye opener.
Although I feel some level of guilt, and an even greater level of humiliation, for having unravelled this morning, it does feel kind of good to have let it go. Why do I spend most of my energy trying to remain calm and serene, ignoring my desperate need to let it all out in the name of being a good mother? I should have been venting all along, rather than suppressing it and going all banshee on them.
So far today the toddler has had a screaming tanty that resulted in an early departure from his soccer lesson and has covered himself, his bed, his carpet and all his books in a tube of bum cream. I am clinging to the thought that it is only another seven hours until his bed time, and that if I cover myself in enough crystals, drown in calming essences and breathe deeply enough to cause hyperventilation, I just might make it.
If anyone else is having a similar day, I’d love to hear about it. Then we can re-read it tomorrow and it will be a scream but if you get to insane before me, just wait at the door. I won’t be long. The first round is on me.