THERE are good times and there are bad times as a parent.
Good times are when the household is running smoothly - with two parents working full time, we are grateful when we get out of the house at 8.15am, with all homework, lunches and shoes intact.
If you had peeked through my lounge room window at 8am this morning, you would have known by my dejected slump and gritted teeth that it was a bad time (but please don’t - with this being the internet and all).
With Miss 8 deciding 8am on a Monday morning was the perfect time to show me two pieces of art she had created, I was trying to make the right noises and praise her work while brushing my teeth.
Then Miss 10 wandered in and announced that she needed an 80s outfit for the school talent show. And she needed it today.
“Why didn’t you think of this yesterday?” I asked as I pretended to appraise the art show.
“I didn’t know about it yesterday,” she wailed.
What she meant to say was, I had forgotten all about it yesterday while I was busy playing computer games, and have only just remembered now. And I expect you oh wondrous wonderful mum to fix something for me.
I managed to recall my old 80s bomber jacket still lived in the dress up box. I pulled it down from its high storage place, spilling fairy and pirate costumes all over the floor and directed Miss 10 to help clean it up after she had found a frilled skirt
“Mum I need a new bag,” Miss 8 announced as I walked back through to the kitchen, bumping into Mr 12.
“All my socks have holes in them,” he said matter of factly as the clock ticked over to 8.07am.
“No they don’t,” I said. “You are just not looking hard enough, and (to Miss 8) what’s wrong with your bag?
Mr 12 stared at me with his preteen look of despair mingled with distaste, and as the clock clicked over to 8.09am I realised that it would be quicker to find him a pair myself.
“They were right here,” I said as I pulled them off the top of his laundry pile (very rare if clothes end up in a drawer lately).
“Where are you? I am NOT bringing them to you,” I called down the hallway to his lair.
“It smells,” Miss 8 said.
“What smells?” I asked sliding through the kitchen on stockinged feet looking for shoes.
“My bag.”
I stopped in my tracks.
“Are you trying to tell me that you want me to buy a new bag because your old one smells?”
She nodded. Perfectly reasonable, to her way of thinking.
As I directed her to look in her bag and CLEAN IT OUT, the clock ticked over to 8.12am.
As Miss 8 pulled out a green, oozingly disgusting lunch bag and ran to the outside garbage bin, I did my make up in 30 seconds.
Yes, it can be done.
With slightly wonky lipstick I headed out the door and as I pulled into the school car park, Miss 10 took the opportunity to announce that she had forgotten the CD for the school talent show.
“Where is it?” I asked. Snappy.
“I don’t knowwwwwwww,” she wailed.
It was at that moment that I realised that I had left our slightly lactose intolerant cat inside the house.
Not a drama usually, but as Dear Husband had decided to give him the rest of the dodgy milk this morning, I knew my return this evening would not be pleasant.