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Futility.

We’re doing an Advent Calendar based on activities. This is the seventh year we’ve done it. I get to feel virtuous about doing things like baking cookies for our neighbours (after eating two batches ourselves and then me fighting off the kids with a fish slice to let the third batch cool and actually make it to the neighbours this time) and donating food and drink to the food bank. Also, we get to have fun – one night we went up to the beach to see the stars come out and drink hot chocolates and sing carols. I LOVE carols. I sing them heartily – they are the only songs I can sing in tune (I think).

Two days ago our Advent Calendar Activity was to go to see the movie The Grinch. But I got so irate at the shit the kids were doing that I totally revoked the movie-going-activity in a series of moments that could have been successfully documented for a blog named Parenting as an Adversary 101.

I screamed “That’s IT!” as I kicked off my jandals with such vigour that one rebounded off the kitchen wall (I was standing in the lounge – that’s at least a 4m trajectory, which I might have been proud of under different circumstances), “NO MOVIE!!!!” And then I called my husband at work and screamed down the phone at him about our TERRIBLE CHILDREN, knowing in some small corner of my mind that his colleagues would probably be able to hear me, but that small part was by no means big enough to wrestle the part of me that needed to vent to the ground. While I was doing this my nine year old son used the nail scissors to cut a slit into the change table mat. So, you can see we were very successfully playing that game of “I want you to be JUST AS FRUSTRATED AS I AM IN THE HOPE THAT YOU WILL STOP YOUR FRUSTRATING BEHAVIOUR SO I’M GOING TO BE A SHIT”. Which always ends badly. Like, with your husband’s boss cackling from over the other side of the office and your facade of calm earth mother shattered for good.

I piled all the kids in the car (them sobbing, me fuming) and went and did the jobs I was meant to be doing that day. Needless to say, I was in a bad mood. One unsuspecting woman walked past us as I was opening the boot of my car in a parking lot and said gayly, “Oh! Watch out for heads!” and I thought WTF? but asked, tersely, “Your head? or hers?” (meaning Joss’s) and the woman, with sharply declining gaiety, replied, “hers” and I replied, “Yep, I knew where her head was.” The woman ducked for cover.

One of the jobs was to go to the Post Office. At this time of year, and in that kind of mood, the Post Office is top of the list of Places I Should Not Go. But I went. And it went about as well as you’d imagine. I got pissed off that there were no bags in-between the $4.50 size and $7 size. WTF NZ Post?? So stormed out of the post office with shit unposted. The next day, in a better mood, I went to a different Post Office (I have some dignity) and just paid the damn $7 to be done with it.

Today after a discussion about the shit that went down in the lead up to my revoking Grinch viewing privileges, we went to the movies. When we got back, we finished some Christmas presents we’d made for some friends of ours, and then hot-glue-gunned some drift wood together to make a wreath for the front door. I was delighted to find that there was still a nail in our front door from last Christmas, and hung the wreath up. Job Done. We listened to supposedly Christmas-themed music on Spotify, and it was a picture of home-education bliss. And then Joss somehow smooshed Louis’ finger into a glob of hot-glue resulting in a 5th degree burn and a wailing Louis and me having to drive to the pharmacy because we had no burn bandages in the house because the last lot we had Louis played with even though I told him not to because when we needed them we wouldn’t have them. On the way out the door (which, perhaps, I opened with a little more vigour than absolutely necessary) the wreath fell off and it’s now a pile of sticks lying in our hallway.

A perfect summation of my experience.

PS. No, there’s not a happy ending. This is life. One day just rolls into the other, and all we can do is hope that Parenting as an Adversary 101 doesn’t call to offer us a job.

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