that make me feel like my brain is oozing out my ears.
Madonna in a pink leotard and the Urinator singing about her humps to one side, Celine swinging cats to the other means smack in the middle are my own children.
Oscar is the prime offender and really, his inability to talk coupled with more chromosomes than his siblings goes a long way to giving him a whole body start and a few lengths on the others. Besides, Jasper is still way too cute to do anything to make my brain ooze anything except Hallmark card levels of gooshy sentimental love ‘n stuff.
And here’s the thing. Ever since he was a baby he sings himself to sleep. Not some melodic Brahms lullaby rendition, just a monotonous humming in some octave never charted but pitched just so that you know it’s not tinitus, a wheel falling off the car or the engine about to drop onto the road (something that almost happened in my beloved Subaru that dad bought for $100, that was beige, that had been completely submerged, that Dad ‘fixed’ with about a bazillion galons of fish oil so I channelled every tuna fisherman known to chart untamed waters and that I LOVED. When the mechanic realised the bolts holding the engine in had all but gone bar one, which was onto the last thread of the screw before an “Oh my God what was that noise and why isn’t my car going” kinda moment, probably in peak hour – and fixed it, this weird noise I’d just lived with for, oh, over a year, disappeared).
Last night as we went to Len and Sharon’s for an awesome night of fun, alcohol, crazy-arsed natural grandparents (who constantly seek spooky coincidences in things I do/have done and that they do of have done) and just, well, fun. Oscar naturally started the monotonous lullably as a) we were in the car and b) it was sort of night time. Felix said, “Mum, Oscar’s singing and it’s annoying me.”
How many times in your life can you say to someone, “Well, he’s done it since he was born so I’m afraid you’re going to have to find a happy place and just live with it.”
The other thing, is word approximated repetitions – no more no more no more no more no more no more no more – over and over and over again when a) it’s time to put on superlegs, b) anyone else except him is on the computer, said standing on top of you as you type – a bit like RIGHT NOW, c) time to get dressed, d) time to go, e) time to eat breakast, lunch, dinner that isn’t chocolate or icecream and I could literally find a reason for the entire alphabet.
My go is another example. My go my go my go mumma, my go my go my go, mumma. Mumma, My Go.
“No it’s not Oscar”
collapse, wailing on the floor.
Which brings me to the third, brain oozing out ears occasion. The wailing. Oh GOD THE WAILING. It’s relentless. At the moment, it’s coupled with a sheer delight in dress-ups and playing with action figures, so I’m guessing we’re getting some priceless three-four year old behaviours that we’ve already lived through with Felix – who now just yells that we’re unfair, he has to do everything, Oscar gets to go first all the time, all as he storms up to their room, moves all the crap out of the way and then slams the door, maybe twice if the first slam wasn’t impressive enough.
So, here we stand, Oscar home for a sum total of six days of holidays already and about half my brain has leaked out. Felix’s last day today and then f.i.v.e. long hot weeks all home together. Mmm, better get a bucket.