The countdown is on...the husband comes back today. This past week's experiment 'solo parenting' the monsters has felt like the looooongest week in personal history.
(The week I was overdue waiting to birth the Dumps felt shorter.)
Indeed, I am heralding the husbands return with as much excitement as I would Santa Claus (if indeed he were real), or a six hour carte blanche shopping spree binge-a-thon at Selfridges. I kid you not.
I got the phone call yesterday afternoon. The motorcycle had broken down about four or so hours south of here. Something about a battery. (I wasn't really listening...merely absorbing the fact that I'd be alone yet another night, and had ANOTHER nightmarish dinner to survive and yet ANOTHER bedtime ritual to complete on my own.)
Dumpies kindergarten teacher suggested that he may just be dealing with a surge of testosterone these days, or in need of an outlet to vent. To that end we have been 'loaned indefinitely' the school's little Mickey Mouse punching bag.
He loves it. He makes me stand there holding it aloft several times a day while he jabs and gives it a right, a left, a quick right and then two sharp lefts. The boy is a natural. Should I be scared?
Meanwhile he's holding me hostage over dinner each night. The deal is, Dumpie gets a milkshake for dessert if he finishes his dinner and doesn't cause trouble. Of course this has meant that he's taken to burying his expensive freshly made fish fingers in the sand (much like I found him burying his 'toilet' in the front yard the other day using his sand shovel and sporting a cheeky grin - explaining that he just 'felt' like doing it outside...nice), and continuing to terrorise Egg for a go on his Nintendo DSi.
I am sick of breaking up sand throwing fights, stick warfare and water bottle tippage for laughs. I am sick of being followed home by a chanting four year old, "Silly Mama stupid Mama...etc." while the local Indians look on with mirth - no doubt finding my rebellious, defiant, very naughty child the most fun they can have without watching telly.
I am sick of it taking 2+ hours to get Dumpie dressed in the morning, only to have whatever I've managed to get him wrangled in, lassoed into the bathroom courtesy of his 'light saver' and into the dirty toilet - rendering it good for nothing but the laundry bag.
I am sick of nightly chasing Dumpie up and down the beach after dark (his beloved birthday torch is STILL around believe it or not, but out of batteries due to almost constant use), stepping on cow droppings and utterly self-conscious in front of rows of assembled diners under the stars.
I am sick of having to pick out discoloured bits of wheat in Dumpie's porridge because they do not make the grade, whilst he stands over me with his toilet brush night stick, tapping me on the wrists if I do not do it fast enough. And at the end of it all he is just as likely as not, to tip the whole mess over the side where it will be fought over by stray dogs and vicious crows, while Dumpie demands, "Toast and jam Mama!"
Can you tell I've nearly lost it?? It's so bad that Dumpie's teacher the other day gazed at me with great compassion and kindly asked, "Are you doing okay?"
Am I doing ok? Ummmm....no. I most definitely am not.
What lessons have I learned this week?
1. Don't give in to a terrorists demands...however tempted you may be. Chocolate milkshakes are just the beginning.
2. Running up and down the beach after a startlingly fast little runner may be good for the heart but bad for the self-esteem. Make sure you are not wearing flimsy bandeau at the time. Not a good look.
3. If you suspect you have spawned an uber-naughty child and find yourself 'between relationships', do something about it now. It takes two to tango with a 'challenging' child. One to be on the front line whilst the other self medicates with a cocktail or a massage. Trust me.
Bring on the husband....