Every child should come with either an off switch, a volume knob, or at the very least, a pair of ear plugs. For the parent, that is. And not those cheap, flimsy foam things, but the proper, hard-core silicone numbers that block out….well, pretty much everything.
Yes, yes, all clichés, I know. But sitting here on the cusp of week four of the school holidays, I am in awe of the fundamental truth of these pithy little jests.
Seriously, what could be louder than three young boys with new Christmas toys - cap guns, rocket launchers, and animated monster trucks? A bomb? That may sound overly dramatic, but at least the noise would be short and sharp, as opposed to death by continual harassment.
And who said that the male species were not ‘communicators’? I do beg to differ. Whilst ‘me-me-me-knife-and-fork’ (a favourite nonsensical chant of my 3 year old) may mean little to the untrained ear, it sure as heck is still draining to listen to. Over and over.
And over.
Now to be fair, as I fancy myself to be, my increased level of irritability may have something to do with the ongoing concussion issues that I’ve been experiencing. (Of course that would be another story for another day - one that will no doubt buy you a good laugh at my expense.) But head injuries aside, I’m not sure I’m going to make the distance.
How many more sleeps until school goes back?
Okay, maybe patience isn’t one of my strengths. And in hindsight, it is obvious that I have inadvertently revealed how rotten and selfish my innards are, darn it. There’s nothing like a few children around (or thoughts on a page) to highlight personality weaknesses.
I have to stay positive here. Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? Or so I’ve heard.
I have realised a thousand times when considering life’s little challenges that it’s all about perspective. Frankly, mine usually errs on the side of intolerance. Maybe I should get a doctor to check that out?...get some antibiotics to clear it up….
Whilst I may, at any given point, have three people speaking to me at the same time, at least they are still talking to me, right? And if I hear the word ‘Mum’ twenty eight times on average every three minutes, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. In a few decades I might be sitting by the phone willing it to ring, desperate to know that my sons still think of me occasionally.
It’s all about seasons, huh?
As if on cue, B3 (a charming addition to our very own Bananas in Pyjamas scenario) has just unleashed a super-soaker in his brother’s bedroom. I wish I were embellishing for dramatic effect.
Time to check into that clinic.
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