So begins term two.
On the pit front, I am healing nicely, and other than negotiating a large blood clot in my arm that rendered me unsure if I would stroke out or encounter an embolus for about four days, all is going along just swimmingly.
I quite enjoyed these school holidays, and truth be told I wasn’t sure if I would. I usually enjoy the school holidays, I enjoy my life not being dictated to me and I enjoy the flexibility of not having to cram between the hours of nine and three. These holidays however, were the first I have experienced since having all three children at school.
I thought I may miss having six hours a day without a train of thought derailment, I might miss doing the housework and knowing that it would stay done until at least 3:25pm. I enjoy being able to watch whatever I want on the TV without having to worry about sensitive eyes and ears and I enjoy not having to police fights for six hours, and so I wondered if I would resent these school holidays and I was pleasantly surprised to find that I didn’t.
Don’t get me wrong, I mean the fighting over every fucking little thing, the dobbing over who farted at the dinner table and the not being able to use the toot without first having to flush another person’s turd down was trying. However, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I enjoyed the school holidays as much as ever.
I did notice a return of my harassed parenting voice though. You know, the voice that is capable of uttering words you never thought would accompany each other to form a sentence, and before long you have uttered that unnerving sentence so many times that you forget it is not an entirely normal structure of words, and so you say them loudly in the middle of big W and everyone in your general vicinity gives you the wary side eye.
These school holidays, that sentence for me was; “Child whom shall remain nameless”
(It was the middle one.)
“Kid, for the last time stop pelvic thrusting at things”
Now, I could blame the Miley’s and the LMAFO’s and all the other gyrating in music and film clips that my children are bombarded with daily, but truth be told, the kid just loves busting out a regular air hump like dance move and is yet to develop the part of his brain that recognises self-awareness or shame.
If he is anything like his mother, he may never develop this at all, and so these school holidays, if any regular beat was caught by his little ear he would pop off a pelvic thrust.
One hand held behind his head, the other in a balled fist, pumping the air above his head, serious dance face on, popping a pelvis.
Over the cat, on the cat, at the cat. On the back of a chair, in the middle of big W, at the front door when I had parcel deliveries, while he was staring absent minded at the open fridge, on the trampoline, at his brothers face while he was playing Xbox, whilst unstacking the dishwasher, again over the top of the cat, his gyrating was relentless and uncomfortable to watch.
The at home thrusting I could tolerate, I mean I have become quite adept at tuning my children out and I was capable of just ignoring it, however the public twerking I found a little harder to ignore.
Half way through the first week, when I found myself standing in the middle of big W, having just broken up another argument over whom the fuck cares, head tilted, serious eyebrows raised high on my face, index finger pointed in the offending child’s general direction saying the words …
“Kid, if I see you dance thrusting at your brother again, you will not get a Lego blind bag, this is the last time I am going to tell you to stop air humping, do you hear?”
I became aware of the general judgment of those around me. Cautious sideways glances were cast all over the place, giggles were stifled and one particular fuck wit gave me a stink eye, when I decided exactly how ridiculous I sounded.
He obliged for a time, and when a particularly catchy tune began on the big W radio, I caught my little man begin a dance move, only to tame it down to a rather sad and defeated balled fist air pumping.
Pick your battles I thought to myself and decided then and there that I would just let the child dance.
There would not always be a time that he would be so beautifully bold as to dance like no one was watching, who the hell was I to hasten its arrival?
So I took him by the shoulder and said that he could dance, that was OK, just not at his siblings, to which he smiled and immediately busted out a particularly joyous pelvic thrusting dance manoeuvre, accompanied by two rotating balled fists and moonwalking.
It was quite the sight.
Hope your holidays were fabulous. Xx