OK, so last I looked it was Wednesday, for which I spent most of panicking it was Thursday but now it is Saturday morning and according to some app on Chef’s iPhone my rag is due tomorrow and I ovulated on the 12th. You’re welcome.
So, Wednesday I hear from K – the friend about to drop her third and for whom we are choosing the name. No really, we are. – that the father of a friend of ours from school died on Sunday after a long illness. Dudes, this is the second Dad in our group of friends to die and I.am.not.ready. to be moving into that cohort. You know, first you’re in the ‘we’re all having 18th and let’s kill our livers together!’, then you’re in the ‘wow, can you believe we’re in our 20s and “studying” something suddenly we’re not that sure we want to do anymore 21st-birthday-a-thon’ strata. Then comes the ‘YOU’RE WHAT??? GETTING MARRIED???’ group where you haemorrage innordinate amounts of money on engagement gifts, hens night horrors, wedding presents, wedding outfits, wedding shoes, wedding haircuts, wedding waxing and therapy for the “I’M GOING TO DIE A SPINSTER”. From there – and not necessarily in order with the last is the ‘YOU’RE WHAT??? YOU’RE PREGNANT???’ (what can I say, there’s a lot of yelling in my circle of friends) stage and from there it’s all babies and sharing maternity clothes and hand-me-downs of baby clothes then getting said baby clothes back when surprise number 2, 3 or 4 comes along and so on and so forth. The next phase – funerals – is not meant to come along for quite.some.time. And by that I mean not now.
The funeral was Thursday and I had every intention of going. Until I realised the meeting I had for this ‘little’ project I’m doing with my old employer on Friday required me to do what is technically referred to as a SHITLOAD of prep for it. My plan was to do a couple of hours Thursday morning, attend funeral, then a few more that afternoon. So I’m working away and then Chef says to me, ‘crap, it’s 1 o’clock already, I have to go to work’.
Another technical term for you: FAIL. How fucking useless am I. Cue guilt and remorse at not having my shit together.
So after that debacle Thursday post school pick-up featured haircuts for four boys with the rude and offensive battle-axe of a hairdresser. you know exactly the type of woman I mean – thin lipped from smoking too many fags, crevices not wrinkles due to years of sun-baking and rakishly thin. As we walked in I jokingly said, ‘oh you must sigh when you see us coming,’ to which she replied, ‘no, cringe is more like it’.
You know I’m not kidding. This is the second major insult I’ve had about my kids in the last week and with this one I can do something about it. That was the last haircut there.
From haircuts to various errands. From various errands to groceries. From groceries to drinking habit.
So on the way home I think, ‘fuck it, let’s get take-away’. For the first time in months, probably this year in fact, we had take-away for dinner. Heaven.
Friday was into the city for meeting and then home and then kids pick-up and then Felix into a casting call.
Yes, you read that correctly. Last night, I not only drove into the city with three children in peak-hour on a FRIDAY afternoon of a long weekend, I faced one of my greatest fears – show parents. You know exactly who I mean. This is a world of contradictions – mothers either over-weight and who clearly decided that the fashions of the late 80s suited them just fine or mothers primped and preened to within an inch of their lives. They’re the ones you know are having a more intimate relationship with their GHD than their husbands. If you know what I mean.
A world where girls have long hair held back with sparkly clips. Where boys have gelled spiky hair. Where girls do that earnest wide-eyed thing when they talk. Where boys do hip-hop.
OH don’t get all uppity at me about making generalisations. YOU KNOW I’M RIGHT.
Well, we did it. We were there. Me proudly without a skerrick of make-up. Felix without an ounce of hair product on his head. Jasper and Grover in outfits that.did.not.match.
This was an audition process to get into this agency. Who knows what will come of it. Felix had fun, the two little guys were angels and I had an awesome time go-fugging the parents. That’s what I call a win win.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Mum took Oscar to his first session at the gym with the support service we use.
This morning had us at Special Olympics ten-pin bowling for Oscar, the third week of this caper. Imagine an entire bowling alley of around 20 lanes packed with people with special needs of all ages bowling. Oscar absolutely LOVES it. I keep forgetting to take some panadol before we go.
The funniest event at this morning’s round? Seeing a family of four mosey on in, clearly thinking their idea of a family outing ROCKED and getting there nice and early to beat the birthday crowds. Then watching their collective expression turn from one of smug righteousness to holy crap what the hell is going on here to dejected cluelessness by the time they departed. HILARIOUS STUFF.
We’re about to have a family lunch – MADE BY FELIX – of spaghetti Bolognese, garlic bread and a delightful display salad. You know, the salad you make to assuage any guilt at there being no green in a meal in the full knowledge no one will eat it.
Felix has drama this afternoon and Chef will head off to work.
And I will wonder why I feel exhausted and wish the children would just play quietly without needing my involvement. Then it will be wine-o’clock, dinner, baths and bed before we start it all over again tomorrow.