I fell over today in the scrambly little sharp devil-pebbles at the gate of the garden and I have a blackened, bloody weepy knee like those children of mine are constantly sporting. For once, I feel a bit sympathetic. And they do not usually have a few glasses of Hardy’s Sparkling Rose buffering them from the pain. I managed to keep the baby from smashing face first into the shards of evil spiky stones, but only through some primal mother-instinct that came out of nowhere like a Superhero reflex I did not know I possessed. I am feeling quite sorry for myself.
I also did not know I possessed Occasion-Specific Tourette’s Syndrome. Apparently I do. On Tuesday morning, Noah’s new teacher came for a home visit. I had spent the entire morning sort-of cleaning up, but getting sidetracked into tidying piles of magazines in obscure corners and wiping out cupboards and folding stuff, and not really actually making the living room any better. Because, as everyone who has pesky children knows, the little buggers wreak such havoc of a morning and there is a lot of filth to deal with. They sprinkle Special K over the floor and always, always tip their water over the kitchen table frighteningly near the Mac and there are toast crumbs spread disproportionately widely, as well as flung nighttime nappies and sharp crucial bits of Lego that bruise the undersides of our feet and make us wild-eyed and snarly.
And I was nervous, even though Noah’s new teacher is Barnaby’s existing teacher and I see her every day – I was nervous, and slow and a little bit domestically unfocused. And they were early, Gramatically-Challenged Miss L and her sidekick, Camp Mr F. And I got excited, and started to swear. I was throwing mildly fruity terms into polite conversation like this:
“Oh, it is bloody raining, is it?” and
“Here is Baby Ned. He is lovely, but always pissing on the cushions” etc etc.
There was an uncontrollable urge to pepper my speech with inappropriateness. The urge won, and I was powerless to stem the tide of rude words. It was some kind of linguistic hell, which only got worse and more difficult to get out of when I began to discuss my interest in Botox and my theories about ageing. Miss L, it should be noted, is 24 and had no idea what I was waffling on about. Even the Camp Mr F was avoiding eye contact. He wrapped things up pretty quickly, by applying the old “as much as we would like to stay here and chat, we have other parents to see” one-two. Ouch. I am sure I was trying to be cool. Swearing & monologues concerning my increasingly unclear jawline = cool, obviously.
Yes. I am a bit of a dickhead and not my smoothest when I need to be. Oh, the shame of it all. I have a feeling there will be a handwritten note on the front of Barnaby and Noah’s files warning teaching staff of their mother who has a potty mouth and who may be a little unhinged (“avoid unnecessary conversation if possible”).
Here is Noah watching Beyonce on Youtube after scoffing a ChocoLeibnitz:
Here is Custard giving Ned a *loving hug*. These inevitably turn a bit squeezy and hurty.
They all at least understand the value of SILENCE.