So here we are again, Friday Night. The weekend starts here! And my weekend is well underway. I’m settled in the sitting room with a large basket of washing and a miniature bottle of port. The oldest is next door, presumably fighting his tiredness by being raucous with his best friend. Daddio is doing some top-notch Dadding, which involves holding the sleeping Munchkin while singing Irish Folk songs at the top of his voice along with YouTube videos. I understand that this may be an odd approach to parenting for some of you, but in our house this is fairly standard.
You see, I’m fairly convinced we’re a bunch of total nutters. Let’s begin with the youngest member of the clan; the Milk Leach, far from liking the quiet life, he is far quicker to fall asleep while it’s noisy. Preferably with rapid arm movement, bum patting and a mild shaking. If he does fall asleep when it’s quiet, he will wake at the sound of a mouse fart in the neighbour hood. Yet, as I listen to the deafening crooning from 2 rooms away, I have no concerns that he’ll be waking up while I’m writing.
Then we have my stepson, who is 7. Really, the fact that he is a nutter should be taken as read. For those of you who are not in the know, let me tell you something about 7 year olds – they are weird. Spectacularly and utterly bonkers. They talk to themselves. All the time. They love badly drawn and poorly plotted cartoons. Particularly the episodes they’ve seen 10 times before. They dislike all the foods they liked yesterday, but they like the foods that they fake puked at last week. They get furious about being asked to brush their teeth before putting their shoes on, because yesterday they put their shoes on first. Routine is key in our house. Asking Mr Routine to change his planned order by even one step is like asking him to move to the other end of the country. He likes things the way they are.
He has so many clothes that I am nearly jealous (not least because his clothes have hidden noise boxes and say cool things that Spiderman says). Yet, day in, day out, he likes to wear the same worn out and slightly too small jeans and washed out t-shirt over and over again. When challenged on this and asked if he could wear one of his other millions of outfits, he morphs into a tiny anger filled rage monkey. And don’t even think about asking him what he wants for breakfast before he’s dressed. He simply will not entertain such nonsense. Sometimes I do it without thinking, and that can be the whole morning off to a disastrous start.
So those are some of the children’s foibles. Believe me there will be so many more revealed in the coming months. So let’s move on to the soon to be Mr and Mrs Silver. You see, I am, without doubt, the kind of crazy that gives crazy people a bad name. But, I guess if you are aware that you’re crazy that negates a little of the crazy from the get go. However, I’m going to opt not to dwell on that too much since I’ve already revealed quite a lot of oddball behaviours in the last few days and I fear that the men in white coats may be on their way.
So let’s move on to the head of the Silver Household (incidentally, Silver is my fiance’s surname, for those who are now wondering if we live in a magical silver coloured castle). Daddio Silver is, it’s fair to say, like no one else I have ever met. He constantly digs himself enormous, cavernous holes and gets entirely stuck in them. I stand by and watch as the poor man gets himself in deeper and deeper. All the while he laughs nervously as he wonders just how much trouble he’s in with me. But that is the odd thing. We have some utterly wonderful arguments, sometimes of proportion enough to make me stomp off to another room in a dramatic fashion. I might even decide to sit on the floor behind a door, head in hands and cry. Because I’ve seen the films. I know how being upset after an argument is meant to look.
But moments after a *dramatic exit stage right*, through comes Hi-Ho Silver to push his luck with some ridiculous joke. Or to pull a face. Or dance. Or sing like a drunk uncle at a family get together. And suddenly we’re laughing. I’m still angry, I’m probably still crying. But there is no denying I’ll also have a horrible case of the giggles. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we end every set-to in this house. Be it mother and son, father and son, mother and father and one day son to son – we laugh it off. Whether we use the dreaded “Tickle Hands” or a terrible pun, no matter if there’s the offer of “worms on toast with bogey sauce” for breakfast to lighten the mood; all arguments and bust ups lead to laughter. Which helps to illustrate our madness, I feel.
I’m not saying it’s healthy. Or sensible. Or even particularly mature. But it’s certainly quicker than trying to get a seven-year old to get up off the bedroom floor using logic and reason!