Buzz buzz

It’s been a while since my last blog. I’ve defrosted a meal and Scooby Doo is on. I have a limited amount of time before the children realise it does not take an hour to reheat a spaghetti bolognaise and they hunt me down to shout at me until I perform like a dancing monkey for them/ put on a new DVD. Tick tock, tick tock.

What’s been going on then? Well, Alex managed to gnaw on one of his didgets until it got infected. Indeed. He bit his own toe nail until it oozed yellow puss and we had to make a dash to the out of hours GP, lest the infection get into his blood and require a hospital stay. He ate part of his own body until he required antibiotics. I suppose it shows a determination of sorts. And the early hint of cannibalistic tendencies.

And what about Ed? Well, Ed’s “selection” (collection of things he is compiling on his bedside cabinet. Stuff which to us appears random and twitches the confusion synapses in my brain, but to him is a continuing project with each item holding significance and importance) continues to grow to epic proportions and is now big like mountain. A pile consisting of one armed army man, half a sticker, a tissue (used), a tin foil badge I made him, a fimo unknown thing I made him, an underground train ticket, a toy axe, a dinosaur toy, a playmobil set of hair (no playmobil head) and my growing unease and hush-hushed concerns about what this means for Edward’s future in life.

“Will he be the feature in a future channel four documentary about hoarders/” I wonder. As I try very, very hard to ignore my involuntary shifty eye movements towards the crime-thriller books that I read, I hope and pray that it is only something as benign as this. But as “the selection” is isolated to an area measuring 40cm x 40cm, I conclude it isn’t really a big deal and this stuff is important to him, it’s his security stuff and makes him feel safe, so what does it matter? If it grows and fills a house when he is a grown up well then that’s his wife’s problem and I am sure his parole officer will have some useful tips and pointers.

However, this past weekend, deep cleaning the house (ergo hoovering under stuff rather than just around it) I lifted his bed and found HALF OF THE PLAYROOM scurried away beneath it. Things that had been going missing for weeks (*cough* months *cough*. The volume and identity of missing toys highlighting how I should hoover under stuff more). Shocked, in denial, in a moment of panic, protecting my future social misfit from himself, I bundled all the evidence up in one go, and with stuff spilling out of my arms as I ran to the toy box, threw it all in. And slammed the lid shut.

The evidence had been destroyed.

For 2 whole days afterwards he exhibited unusual behaviour. Whilst we are normally an incredibly close and loving family anyway and frequently tell each other “I love you”, he would make an even more concerted effort to seek me out to constantly to tell me how much he loved me. How I was the best mummy ever. How no one could ever love me as much as he did.

Ahhh. And thus considering myself loved and secure, I felt I was in the safe zone for a discussion about why and how he liked to collect things, and perhaps how we could localise his selection to just his bedside table. Utilising skills I had read about, I decided to approach this calmly and in a “by the by” chat. To not make a big deal. I cuddled him up and lovingly, lightly, forced interest (and not concern) to shine from my eyeballs, asking him about his “secret selection” of toys under his bed.

He moved his face inches from mine and growled:

“Yes. I looked under my bed and saw that you had moved all my things. I am very, very angry”.

And with that he slid off my lap, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

And then turned and went to play with his army men.

Blog readers, what a fool I had been. Now I am sleeping with one eye open and looking into going to stay with my mum for a few days. Where it’s safe.

What else?

My arse aches. The muscles are spasming, jiggling about and then crying about it. Jumping about like a drunk holiday maker in Hawaii hopping on hot coals, bouncing up and down, unable to stop. I have walked THAT MUCH round my village these past two weeks I feel like I must look like a crazy lady with nothing else to do. Especially as I am doing it with that empty pram again on my way to collect the littlest one from playschool.

“Why is there no baby in that lady’s pram, mummy?” asked the 4 year old to his mother, loudly, pointing at me.

I identify with the fly, buzzing about my village, landing on some cake here (school), getting wafted away…landing on some discarded bread there (playschool)… have a little rest from buzzing and chat to a fellow fly (my butt cheeks pulsating the whole time), shoo-shooed on…going on my uninterrupted and long haul flight until I land on some dirty washing up (at my house)…buzzing round and round and round and round the same room with little insect arms in a MILLION DIFFERENT PIES, getting confused and dizzy and sweaty and then….buzzing back off to playschool…buzzing back….buzzing round some cheese sandwiches…buzzing around a small child and irritating it, getting swatted away by it…buzzing to school…buzzing round a bigger child and irritating that one with questions like

“What did you do at school today?”

“Nothin’”

“Who did you play with?”

“Dunno”

“Did you have PE today?”

“Can’t rememeber”

“What was your lun-”

and

SWAT!

Buzzing, buzzing buzzing all day long until bed.

This buzzing about. This new routine. It’s like having a new baby. I don’t know my arse from my elbow. I don’t have a fricking clue.

“The first 2 weeks are the hardest” said parents with older children at school already.

And so I focussed on the first 2 weeks.

Third week. Didn’t get any easier. And I pointed at my tantrumming, arms flailing, fly swatting reception child convulsing on the kitchen floor because I congratulated him on getting a green card for good behaviour. The irony is not lost on me.

“Yeah, up until Christmas, that’s the hard bit. It gets easier after Christmas” said parents with older children at school already.

THEY ARE ALL LIARS.

I have no routine whatsoever. After buzzing all day, Smudge found me buzzing round and round and round the kitchen putting the fairy liquid bottle in the fridge and the children watching Antique Roadshow repeats. The house is in a huge state of confusion. He has only just walked through the door and already the confusion has attacked him and stuck to him like glue. He says;

“What have you done today then gu-?”

“STOP STRESSING ME OUT!” I scream, waving around a raw gammon steak “I started the ironing, *points unfinished* the dinner *points unfinished* the READING AND HOMEWORK *points unifinished* ”

Momentary silence…

“You drank a lot of tea” he said, pointing at a million dried-out, shrivelled-up tea bags festering in tea-caddy.

“IT STOPS ME FROM STRESSING OUT!”

“…really?”

and then the lightbulb filament in my brain that had been fizzing and popping, finally blew and I picked up all the shrivelled-up tea bags in a big ball in my hands, and in a uncontrollable rage like The Hulk, squuueeeeezed out the last remants of tea bag juice, stormed over to the bin, stomped on the foot pedal and lobbed them in, before turning to Smudge like a banshee and pointing at the trail of tea bag blood I had left in my wake.

“HAPPY NOW?!!! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?!”

And so I carried on buzzing round the village, I carried on exercising and I carried on running. I stupidly ignored the pain and the cough burning in my chest. And I ended up with pleurisy. So it’s all been a bit full on lately. However, what has been cheering me up during my recouperation has been laughing at many dimwits on my local online selling/ buying website. You know, the ones where you can buy second hand sofas and kids toys. I urge you to find your own local site and JOIN it. The pain of laughing at some of the ads has indeed been worth it. Here are just a few beauties I want to share with you. Enjoy.

 

box

 

MAMIMUM protection. Yes, because without a key even YOU can’t get your stuff out.

 

tan

 

This doesn’t really need a caption, does it?

 

puppy

 

It took a lot of will power for me not to just reply “How much do you want for the necklace?”.

 

jew

 

Pretty sure it’s not OK to trade in Jewish people anymore….

 

 

advice

So yes if you want advise do give them a call.

 

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6 Responses to Buzz buzz

  1. hurrahforgin says:

    I am somewhat scared by your post – you seem to be in a similar situation to myself but with slightly older children. Things seriously don’t get any better?! :)

    Love the red metal box ad, i would be tempted to call x

    • Hannah says:

      HURRAH for others in my situation! And the ads were brilliant – they really cheered me up. Happy days! Thanks for reading x

  2. Ben says:

    Ah yes the collecting, Matilda does that, she piles half the play room in a few bags and then starts crying and having a tantrum when they are so heavy the pull her over.

  3. bonniecroft says:

    ahhhh maybe! just maybe ! that is where my sewing machine foot peddle is …
    I have put it SOMEWHERE and I have run out of ideas xxxx

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