“How did it get so late so soon?” – Dr. Seuss
Today’s blog title is borrowed from the wonderful Dr. Seuss –
whose books I adore,
even now as an adult,
much more than before.
“How did it get so late so soon?”. I couldn’t have said it better myself, Mr. Theodor Seuss Geisel. “Where does the time go?” is an all-too-familiar phrase. Especially in a house containing toddlers. Two of them.
I have so many thoughts and amusing snippets of my crazy twin-life that I’d like to share, spinning about inside my head, but actually finding the time to sit at the table and type them out is difficult. But not impossible, right? Like now, for example. The boy child is at kindy (pre-school, child-care, whatever you might call it), after the biggest meltdown in the history of the Penman Twins, which included copious amounts of snot, tears, screaming, howling, wailing, a sobbing phone call to Dad, and proclamations of persecution at the fact that I was making him go to ‘school’!
The girl child is upstairs, asleep in her cot, exhausted after her morning of op-shopping with me, (‘op-shopping’, for those of you who are not familiar with the term, is basically buying other people’s unwanted shit from a second-hand store), where we purchased a bejewelled plastic tiara, a sparkly magic wand and a rather fetching pink tutu, all for less than the cost of a cup of coffee! When we returned home, I showed her how to wave her magic wand and *poof*, she would simply get what she so desired, which was fairly stupid of me, in hindsight. She ended up creating a cold breeze with the amount of waving she was doing.
“I want pineapple juice!”
“I want to watch The Wiggles!”
“I want my teddy!”
It was a bloody exhausting couple of hours, let me tell you. For both of us. Consequently, I’m not too shocked that she’s up there, snoring away like a cute fairy with acute sinusitis. She even fell asleep with her new magic wand held tightly in her chubby little hand.
And then there’s the furry child…laying in her bed beside me, feeling rather pleased with herself, I would imagine, after she has just witnessed me cleaning up her dog vomit (a job that actually made me physically gag). Why would that particular act provide her with a modicum of satisfaction? Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? She is still punishing us for leaving her on the other side of the world for six months. Literally. But what else could we do? She needed to get lots of tests done in order to meet the Australian import requirements, and those examination results take time. Throw in the extra stint she had to do in quarantine, aside from the usual ten-day stay, due to another imported pooch testing positive to CIV (Canine Influenza Virus), which is something the Aussie hound population haven’t ever had exposure to, and is it any wonder she is still so pissed off with us? It also might have something to do with the fact that she was confused by the term ‘import requirements‘ and had convinced herself she’d breeze through the entire process being that she was SO important!
Anyway, I digress. I was talking about time. Or lack thereof. It’s odd, because I have the same amount of time in my day as everyone else, and yet I can’t seem to get my shit together well enough to blog when I
want need to. So, I must think of a Plan B, because Plan A isn’t working out so well.
Oh, hang on. I’m not sure I’ve even shared Plan A with you. I had decided to send the children to kindergarten. This was the proposed initiative – on Mondays, the twins would go to kindy together; on Tuesdays, Miss Riley would attend by herself and I would have a delightful day of one-on-one time with Mr. Flynn; and vice-versa on Wednesdays. Thursdays and Fridays would be non-school days. This agenda would provide me with one day of much-needed ‘me time’. I say ‘me time’ but really, it’s anything but. The last bit of ‘me time’ I had was spent donating plasma at the hospital. I got to sit still (in a reclined position, no less) for a gloriously uninterrupted half an hour. I had a pillow placed comfortably behind my weary head, and a warm blanket laid across my lap. And they made me a chocolate milkshake. And apart from the fact that I could see my own red blood cells being returned to my body via a plastic tube, it was just like being on a spa day. And it was free. Result!
* The above blogging was interrupted by a phone call from said kindergarten, asking if I could pop along and collect (a woefully unhappy) Flynn. I am now continuing to type my blog almost twenty-four hours after the fact!
So, this was our first week of embarking on Plan A, aside from last week’s orientation. As I was showering on Monday morning, I couldn’t help but gleefully sing the Soup Dragon’s 1990 song – “I’m free…to do what I want…any old time”. And then the twins started crying. A lot. They cried before we’d even got there, they cried as we made our way from the car to the classroom, and I could still hear them crying as I duck-walked my way outta there, in order not to be spotted through the windows by my caterwauling children. I found it distressing. They must have found it distressing. I imagine the child care workers also found it distressing. We were not off to a good start. And I spent most of my ‘free time’ at the shops stocking up on bits & bobs for my latest ‘positive parenting reward system’. On Tuesday, the school phoned me to come and collect Riley because she was so upset. Wednesday was Groundhog Day, except this time the phone call was to tell me to go and collect Flynn.
I had so much riding on my ‘day off’. I had planned to do all manner of things. Clean, blog, sew, read books about parenting (the ones that have been sitting on my bedside table for months, gathering dust), exercise, go for long walks with the pooch, bake cupcakes, repaint furniture, paint my neglected toenails, poo alone, sort out my wardrobe and the garage and the garden…. You get the picture, right? So many goals to fit into one child-free eight-hour day per week. ‘Achievement’ was going to be the theme of every Monday from here on in.
Who was I kidding? Or rather, who were my kids kidding?
Today is Thursday. Last night, when I was putting the twins to bed, I had to reassure them that nobody goes to school on Thursdays. Instead, I was forced to solemnly promise that we would go to the park instead. To be honest, I can think of far worse ways to spend my Thursday than chasing my two little tykes around a playground.