My kid wants me to drink.

We drove to my MILS on Boxing Day, after packing up our entire house into three bedrooms so that our floorboards can be sanded and oiled while we're on holiday. Lucky our housesitters like takeaway food, because Dave ripped out the kitchen sink. "So they can sand the bench, hon."

Dave has this wonderful habit of barking orders at everybody around him; he is the boss of a lot of people at work. Sometimes I humour him, and march around the house saluting. The other day, in line at Gloria Jeans, I shouted "I AM NOT YOUR APPRENTICE." The fallout from shouting at your husband in a crowded shopping centre is very bad.

It is very, VE-RY hard to try and keep everyone happy at the same time, on a family holiday. I always forget this. And remember it when I am impersonating a busted pressure cooker. Max is bored all the time, Tim pines for his forgotten iPod, and Dave enjoys regular timeouts and goes for runs on the beach while I am trapped at my MILs house. My MILSs elderly partner is a cranky, bitter old man who is living the last of his days out in spectacular frustration. He went on a verbal tirade at the television set last night, when a report came on about Elton John and his partner having a baby with the help of a surrogate. His homophobia floored me - "THOSE kinds of people." I was disgusted at his disgust. There is no love lost between us.

Oh, as for Rocco?

Rocco has run away twice, both times brought back by different people who live down the (busy) street. He climbed up on to the highest shelf of the bookcase crouching, because his head was so close to the ceiling. If a heavy chair hadn't been in front of it, the whole thing would have fallen over and he would have been seriously hurt. When I tell him something he doesn't like, he responds by making a gun with his fingers and telling me calmly, "I kiw you, mummy."

When he gets disciplined, he responds by doing a poo on the floor, then running through it.

He has thrown so many things out of the car window the past few days.

I am at my wits end. WITS.

His last performance was an hour ago .... refusing to go to sleep, then doing an enormous sloppy poo all over the carpet and running through it, cupping it in his hands. SERIOUSLY??!! This has happened so many times the past few months - my sisters tell me to buy gaffer tape for his nappy. I will.

I went in and cleaned it up again. I totally love it! I smacked Rocco on his bare bottom, hard. I can count on one hand the amount of times I've smacked him. I was hit a lot as a child, so rarely do it to my children. Dave gave him a smack a few weeks ago too .... for doing a huge poo on my PILLOW.

This morning I woke up to mouse shit on my bedside table. I cleaned it off. Do you have any shit in your life? I am the *best* shitcleaner.

We are due to fly to Bali in a few days. Rocco has never been on a plane. (To the people we will be next to on the plane ... I am so, SO sorry.)

Right now, I am sitting in the local library, typing this out on their computer. In a huff. I have decided to split the five of us into two tag teams .... both taking turns in minding Rocco, so at least half of us can have a good time.

On my way walking here, I looked down at my feet and saw that Rocco's poo was squelched and smeared between my toes.

I don't know how to end this post.

Goodbye.