Too, Too Much

Today, I have cobbled together and updated two posts from two years ago, telling two separate stories of my two sons.  I enjoyed re-reading them.  I hope that you enjoy them, too.

I have such an embarrassing mother...

Tory Boy, the aspiring politician and future world dictator, joined formspring.me (is that site still around?) in 2010.  Anyone can ask you any question and you can answer them.

He had lots of political questions:

Q: If after the election we have a hung parliament, how would you like to see the situation resolved?

A: Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah [Far too dull for The Laughing Housewife blog; you come here for a laugh, not a nap.]

I preferred the personal:

Q: Are you eating properly?

A: Stop nagging.

Guess who asked that one? 

Here’s one I didn’t ask:

Q: Boxers or briefs (or other)?

A: Boxers. Always. Also, other? What the hell? No, just no.

I liked his answer to it so much, I Liked it on Facebook.  Five minutes later I received an outraged phone call from my son asking me to Unlike it immediately and to refrain from liking his underwear on a public forum.  And in private, come to think of it.  It was just wrong on so many levels he would have to deny I was his parent if we were ever together in public.

That really made me laugh: as if I’d ever admit that a politician was related to me, let alone be seen with him in public.  How embarrassing would that be?

Love me, love the boy who thinks he owns me...

You wait ages for a child, then one comes along every three minutes.  In this instance, the same child. 

Spud left for school this morning in the usual manner: me hassling him and telling him he’s going to be late if he doesn’t get a move on will you just hurry UP!  and him…taking…his…time…I’ll be fine…don’t worry. 

Sometimes, I hate being proved right.  Our creaky door bell – creaky because the battery is dying and instead of a chirpy ding-dong! we get a biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggggggggggggg…boooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggcough…splutter…fade… announced his return, three minutes after he had left the house two minutes late.  He missed the bus because it was five minutes early which, by my calculation, means if a = plus2 and b = minus5 then c = too long in the bathroom with the hair gel; remainder ten, as in, leave the house ten minutes earlier tomorrow if you want to be sure of getting your bus.

He tantrummed on the doorstep along the lines of busesIhatebusesbusesarerubbishwhydowehavetohavebusestheymakemelate? for a couple of minutes; explained that he had come to tell me he was going to be late for school because he had no money on his phone  – let me clarify in case that whizzed over your head as it did mine, first time around: he was telling me he had no money on his phone which was why he had come to tell me that he had missed his bus, not that he had missed his bus because he had no money on his phone.  Got that?  Me neither.  Then he stomped off to the bus stop for the 8:05 bus, which would make him late for school. 

I returned to the important business of King.com and thought no more of it.   Five minutes later the familiar biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggggggggggggg…boooooooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnngggggggggcough…splutter…fade… interrupted the first chance I have had to beat my high score on Rainbow Rescue in months.  It was Spud, enraged, at the door.  He had come to tell me he had missed his second bus as a consequence of coming to tell me he had missed his first bus and now he was going to be reallllllllly late for school.  Stupid buses! 

I sent him away with the warning not to come and tell me if he missed his third bus, but to take the radical decision to stay put.

Kids!  They are so selfish – it’s going to be weeks before I get close to beating my high score again.

Of Boxes & Boxers

Papier-mâché – such fun!  I was helping in school yesterday.  The girls got stuck in but some of the boys found it gross and didn’t like the mulch under their fingernails.  I’m that way about pastry, which is why I never make it. 

Two of the boys didn’t get past the building a mountain out of egg boxes stage, and asked for my help.  I found myself doing a Hub and completely taking over.  My mountain had a waterfall and caves and the fact that it was green and lumpy and the waterfall was made of a Smarties box means that you have no imagination at all.

Let me explain what I mean by ‘doing a Hub’: if you can ever not be bothered to finish a project, any project, just ask the Hub for his help; sit back; relax; watch a movie; bake a pie (using frozen pastry, naturally); raise a family.  He cannot help himself when he sees that you are not putting enough effort in; not dotting the ‘i’s, crossing the ‘t’s, outlining the crayon with a black marker pen; not using a fork to prettify the pie.  It’s how he got so sick in the first place.  Delegate?  Pah!  He spits on your ‘delegate’ (just got all Rowan Atkinson-French in Not The Nine O’Clock News there).  Why should he delegate when he can do it all himself?  He is not a perfectionist – good grief, no!  He denies the accusation strenuously, insisting that he just trys to be a perfectionist.  I bet 90% of all CFS/ME sufferers have the same complaint.

The children had to bring boxes into school to make their models.  I’m guessing that some didn’t bother to ask their parents’ permission: one had obviously retrieved his mother’s Canesten Duo box from the bin;  another was going to be in trouble when his mother discovered he had taken tonight’s ready meal from the freezer.  The worst part was that he left the food inside and took it into school three days before the project started.  There were a lot of complaints about the peculiar smell, especially once the heating was turned up.

Children don’t always embarrass their parents; sometimes it’s the other way around.  Tory Boy has joined http://www.formspring.me/.  Anyone can ask you any question and you can answer them.  He has had lots of political questions (Q: If after the election we have a hung parliament, how would you like to see the situation resolved? A: Too dull for this blog) and some personal (Me: Are you eating properly?  TB: Stop nagging), but this one made me laugh:

Q: Boxers or briefs (or other)?

A: Boxers. Always. Also, other? What the hell? No, just no.

I liked his answer so much I Liked it on Facebook.  Five minutes later I received an outraged phone call from my son asking me to Unlike it immediately and to refrain from liking his underwear on a public forum.  And in private, come to think of it.  It was just wrong on so many levels he would have to deny I was his parent if we were ever together in public.  That made me laugh even more: as if I’d ever admit that a politician was related to me, let alone be seen with him in public…how embarrassing.