If there were parenting league tables – which, thank fuck, there aren’t, although I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the army of Smug Parents manage to get them introduced and have us all sobbing into our morning mug of gin – then I am fairly sure I would be rapidly heading out of the bottom of what was formally known as the Vauxhall Conference.
It has not been a good week. Which is a worry, given we’re only on Tuesday.
Obviously Sunday’s highlight was Beth revealing her labia in the street. Which is not a sentence I ever thought I would find myself writing.
Yesterday, after we had smeared – let’s be honest, when you’re using the adjective ‘smeared’, you know things are unlikely to end well – the kitchen liberally with what was actually brownie mix but bore a worryingly close resemblance to human excrement – note to self, MUST leave my cleaners a note to explain the cause of the brown smears which are still fucking everywhere, lest they think I’ve decided to indulge in some kind of dirty protest – I decided to make a brief attempt at acting like a responsible adult and go and clear out mine and the children’s clothes.
Now, to give you the back history to this… for the past few months Jamie has been walking around the house naked complaining that “my balls hurt”. For context: Jamie is possibly the most frequently naked person I’ve ever met. I sometimes feel like laying another place at the table for Jamie’s balls, so prevalent are they in our family life. I keep waiting for some sense of mortification and desire to cover up and put a pair of fucking pants on to hit him. I suspect I will be waiting some time.
Anyway, so Jamie had been striding around, making declarations of “my nuts are so crushed” and other such oratory delights. Always in front of an innocent visiting bystander or during a crucial work phone call, that obviously goes without saying. Having had him examined by a medical professional and all declared to be well, I had concluded that this was just another attempt on his part to make frequent references to his genitalia – which, let’s face it, when you’re a 9-year-old boy, is the very cutting edge of comedy.
And then yesterday I was completing my long overdue task of sorting through his clothes, and happened upon his underwear drawer.
I counted approximately fourteen pairs of boxer shorts.
Half – HALF! – of which were both worn regularly… and clearly labelled ‘Age 4-5’.
No wonder his nuts were fucking crushed. My poor boy 😂
Oh, and as if all of that wasn’t enough, tonight I have deposited Jamie at Cubs with his homework, which was to log our family’s recycling over the course of the week.
Under the column logging ‘glass bottles’, Jamie has totted up a total of THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TWO glass bottles. With a mean of 46 glass bottles per day, for a four person household. Needless to say, this consists of figures drawn entirely from his own imagination, but that won’t necessarily be immediately clear to those adults responsible for collating said homework who will clearly now be wondering whether we are running our own household (unsuccessful) branch of AA.
I am fucking knocking this parenting thang out of the fucking PARK 😂😂😂