Friday, 26 August 2011

My half-assed attempt at parenting.

My beautiful boy Max got a note home from school. "Please have your child dress up as something from his cultural heritage for bookweek on Friday."

I know - an empty bottle of vodka to symbolise his Scottish roots! No, no glass allowed. What about carrying a bag of potatoes, to acknowledge his Irish heritage on Dave's side of the family? No - too heavy.

I have been rushed, stressed, and tired for ooooh - three years now. I told Max I know .. in honour of MY own family tree of exceptional forefathers who date back to the colony-makers of Australia, why doesn't he go as a convict?

GENIUS! Except, at 9pm last night we had to improvise because it was due the next day. I found a stripey shirt to wear, and cut some scraggly pants up for him.

              I wonder how many times he has been asked what he is.

We all piled in the car and as we drove nearer to the school I started to see it ... brightly coloured costumes, perfectly coiffed hair and easily identifiable national dress. Max was screwed. Prickly shame crept up from my neck to my face. My bedraggled convict got out of the car. "SEE YA MUM!"

Rocco said "Bye Max" but Max didn't hear so Rocco blew my eardrum out in protest. Not only was my son obliviously walking next to all the amazing costumes, he didn't bat an eye when I trawled next to the curb, wound my window down to say "Max, Rocco said he loves you."

Max ran over, placated his brother, and then ran into school. The bedraggled convict with not even a ball and chain to show for it, because I was so tired.

Why am I tired? This guy:

                                    I am just so refreshed mummy!

Every single night he runs into my bed and kicks me to death and I do not sleep. I put out an APB on my facebook page recently, asking for any tips on how to stop this happening. I have not had a decent night sleep in three years and am getting desperate. The general consensus from commenters is to just ride it out. Nothing can be done - unless I lock him in his room and get some heavy-duty earplugs to drown out the wails. (I almost did that. Almost.)

Every night now, when Rocco comes in and kicks the shit out of me I put a dummy pillow in between us but he kicks it out of the way with an "I NEED YOU MUM!" ... I think of all the other mums and dads out their, battling the same problems at night. It makes me feel less alone.

One day, we will sleep. Probably when we are dead.


During the time it took for me to write this post, Rocco informed me that he "Spilt a bit of wee in the toilet mum." So I went in with a few tissue to mop it up. A few tissues? No.

                         We're gonna need a bigger boat.
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