Most days I spend wondering what kind of unstable, delinquent pyromaniacs our parenting is producing (oh yes, Boofer, don’t think I haven’t seen that look in your eye as you sit, bewitched, by the fireplace).
Days of trying to anticipate the mercurial feelings of a pair of kids who can drop their tiny bundles over such injustices as being asked if they want a drink of water, or being told not to slap their sibling round the face with a miniature golf club.
Days when Titch spends 90% of his time actively trying to sustain a head injury and the other 10% making that godawful, unintelligible whiny noise. And when Boofer has vomited on every surface of the house, including the cat, by 8am.
Days when every meal time with Titch involves complex negotiation, interpretive dance, ethnically diverse sock puppets and fifty-eight renditions of ‘Speed Turtle’. And days when Boofer reacts to every place further than 3m from our property boundary by screaming inconsolably, deafeningly, unendingly. Her screams pierce ear drums, frighten small children and possibly attract bears.
And then there are the briefest of moments that reassure me that we are not always the world’s least effective parents. The moments that make me consider canceling plans to sell both kids to a needy, barren celebrity.
Scene – In our carport, unloading third carload of firewood.
Me – What’s that Titch?
Titch – Giraffe sticker for mama! Good job with the firewood.
Scene – All of us snuggling on the couch, watching The Little Mermaid
Titch – No thank you, more DVD. Mummy, do vacuuming. Do vacuuming please! (Gets up, turns off TV, drags vacuum over to the couch where the beloved and I lie, groaningly full of pasta. Pulls cord out of vacuum. Stops, looks up at the beloved expectantly.)
I suppose we can keep them for a bit longer.