It started peacefully.
Some minor scuffles, but nothing I couldn't handle.
Until Son#2 spat (yesssssir...) a lego block in the general direction of Son#1 and CRACKED THE BLOODY TV SCREEN.
I swore high and low, promising untold misery when their father came home tonight.
Never have they EVER cleaned up so quickly.
Even the laundry was carried down from 3 up all the way to the cellar.
Son#1 started a collection amongst brothers, donating €10 of his own money to the 'New TV'-jar, plus picture of remorseful children and angry parents, but Son#2 has yet to learn what money actually entails and conveniently 'forgot' where his piggy bank was, and Son#3, well, is only 4.
Son#1 started a collection amongst brothers, donating €10 of his own money to the 'New TV'-jar, plus picture of remorseful children and angry parents, but Son#2 has yet to learn what money actually entails and conveniently 'forgot' where his piggy bank was, and Son#3, well, is only 4.
Son#1 offered to cook lunch and then dropped olive oil on the Uber Porous Kitchen Floor, now sporting a dinner plate-sized stain.
Groceries.
Lots of them.
Then to the GP we went, to see why Son#1's knee hurts still, 3 weeks post-fall.
We were sent to the hospital for X-Rays, because the GP thought it 'interesting' to see if the kneecap was cracked, never mind that you can't do a damn thing about it.
Nothing broken, but Son#3 then Projectile Vomited all over himself and the front seat of my car on the way home, with Sons#1 and #2 hanging their heads out of the back windows to stop the sympathy gagging.
We stopped in front of the house and it dawned on me that I would have to be the one to 'adult' this situation - that there wasn't another adult around to fix it.
Later when the husband came home, I rattled off the litany in tears, and he cooked dinner and broke a glass jar, spraying the counters with glass shards.
Sigh.
Then I had to make a gazillion treats for the nasty kids in Son#2's class for tomorrow, and ended up eating the left-over Jelly Beans for dinner.
Jelly Beans and Alcohol.
My mum would be proud.
Then I had to make a gazillion treats for the nasty kids in Son#2's class for tomorrow, and ended up eating the left-over Jelly Beans for dinner.
Jelly Beans and Alcohol.
My mum would be proud.
I realize that my life is a feral cat being tickled:
You never know when it will attack.
Perhaps I don't HAVE an autoimmune disease - perhaps I AM the autoimmune disease (cue Ripley's Believe it or Not-tune).
Perhaps I don't HAVE an autoimmune disease - perhaps I AM the autoimmune disease (cue Ripley's Believe it or Not-tune).
The only thing that lifted us out of this Parody of a Soap Opera, was the cheap flight we booked to Brindisi in April.
No money?
No TV?
No problem.
.
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