Sunday Bloody Sunday.

The Sparky went away camping & fishing this weekend for his mates birthday, which is good considering the weather has been awesome for fish. He goes away every now & then, usually in the dry season but not exclusively. Its not all that fair, given that his weekends can be anywhere from 2-4 days long, but our general rule is that he's free to get out of town during the Dry Season when the Cape is more accessible, & I'm free to go to the pub during Wet Season when the humidity sucks balls.
I'm good with this.
My hair is not.



People used to comment on how it must be difficult to be stuck home all weekend with Miss G (before Pooey was born) but I never really agreed. She was a SUPER easy kid to have around & we had fun together. Then Pooey came along & people told The Sparky his huntin', campin', & fishin' days were numbered. He never really agreed.

This weekend has gone on for 3 & a bit days now & I am so SICK TO DEATH of my own goddamn voice.
I should probably conceed that it's not them, it's me. BUT IT IS THEM, FUCK IT!!!
My sweet, compliant Little Pesticles are doing my frigin head in with their lack of sweetness & compliance. Miss G, who is mature FOUR & A HALF by the way, is just not coping with communication of any kind. I'm sure she can see my lips moving & hear the sounds I'm making but none of it can compute. Kind of like Homer Simpson or Santas Little Helper when all they can hear is 'Blah, blah-blah-blah, blah-blah.'
If I ask her to do something she usually says "okay" & skips off as if she is about to do it. Then when your go to find her half an hour later she's still in her pjs/undies/nuddy with her teeth unbrushed, her room a sty, & her possible selection of the days casual wear ALL. OVER. HER. ROOM.
Yesterday I sent her to get ready to brush her teeth. She gets the toothpaste & brush etc, then calls me to brush them properly. I waited, deliberately, until I could wait no more. For 45 minutes she chatted & laughed with herself in the bathroom, telling stories & checking herself  out in the mirror.
*sigh*

For Pooey, on the other hand, everything is a goddamn ladder. He's compliant with the general stuff like eating, dressing & sleeping, but the rest?...JESUS!

I turn around & he's grown a foot & can reach all kinds of shit. I shouldn't  can't tell you how many times he's come round the kitchen bench with a carving knife potato peeler.

Every flat surface is a platform to pitch off. He's not long got the hang of walking, but jumping from height?...totally under control. Climbs into the highchair, perches on the couch arm, crawls up onto the dining table. And OH when The Sparky forgets to put the 10ft ladder away. It is meant for climbing, I guess.
His current obsession is bringing me all electronic items off our sidetables. My phone, The Sparky's phone, the house phone, the iPod, allllllll one.....at......a.....time......
At least he brings them to me I spose.
Oh, & apparently EVERYTHING is edible. Or if its not edible it at least deserves a good lick.
I just changed a dirty nappy that, quite literally, had text in it. No need to buy a vowel Burgo. There was an 'a' & an 'r', & possibly an 'n'.
*sigh*

So I've spent the weekend/week/month/year so far doing a fair bit of yelling, which I HATE. I'm a big fan of calm, clean & quiet. Nothing makes me sound more like my Mother than a few choice phrases at a certain decibel.

Now I'm sitting here, with Miss G chillin' out to ABCKids. And Pooeys on my lap pretending to be all sweet & gentle, while he gives me an anatomy lesson with his finger shoved up my 'NOSE!... NOSE! ...NOSE!' Its certainly not a bogside massacre. So maybe I'll just get over myself?