Thursday, 11 April 2013

The painful tale of the well made whistle.

Once (actually yesterday) Sarah was playing on a whistle we brought her back from Vietnam.

Like many souvineery things, it was given to her when we returned, she loved it, played it, lost it, found it.  Occasionally I would vanish it because it sounds just like a recorder.

The recorder is THE most annoying instrument in the world.  By a long way.

So yesterday she was playing it.  It was band rehearsal morning. Perhaps she was getting herself into the mood.

We weren't in a hurry when they went up to clean their teeth but 15 minutes later, after only one child had returned to me and the bloody whistle was still playing, we had gone from comfortably on time, to teetering on the edge of disaster.

I shouted up the stairs that the whistling needed to stop NOW.

It kept playing.

I shouted up the stairs that if it didn't stop RIGHT NOW, whoever was playing it was going to be severely punished.

It continued tootling away, infuriating me.

The contentious instrument of pain.  
I was mad.  I was so mad.  Sometimes I get really mad.  And my kids know about it.

Up the stairs I went, and found her in the bathroom, playing away, waiting for Issy to finish her teeth.

Note: there is room for two people to clean their teeth at this particular sink.  There is no need to serenade your sister with a whistle while waiting for a space to perform your oral hygiene.

But I did not stand there and say this quietly.  Oh no.  Because I was FURIOUS.  Fed up with being a bit player in my own household, despite being the net that keeps it all together.  Totally over having to guide everyone through every tiny stage of their morning, day after day.

Tired of reminding them every Wednesday, that we're 'in a hurry', 'mustn't waste time', 'have to get to band'.

God, it's been a long term.

So, what did I do?

Against every piece of parenting advice written ever, I snatched the fucking whistle out of her mouth and snapped the fucking thing over my left leg.  Because it's a crap Vietnamese whistle and should snap like a twig right?


Instead of snapping into two, the surprisingly well made whistle remained intact.  My thigh, on the other hand, sustained a mighty injury.

I resisted the urge to fall, screaming in agony, to the floor.  Because Sarah was already screaming that I'd broken her flute and it was hers, and she didn't hear me and she didn't mean to and please don't break it.

And I have my pride.

So, instead, still furious, and in considerable pain, I hobbled down the stairs and threw the bloody thing in the skip (which was still outside waiting for collection, full of crap we didn't even know we possessed).

Cue more hysteria.  More agony.  More anguish.  It was 7:28.  I had two minutes to calm Sarah and learn to walk again.

She gathered her wits, cleaned her teeth and put on her shoes.  Josh, who had been ready since 7:15 was dispatched to the skip to retrieve the whistle, to be returned later...much later.

I get really angry, but it's never for very long.  And already I was feeling pretty darn foolish.  Like, who's the adult here?

And my leg hurt.

We made our peace, and left for school.  Me limping.

I now have a good sized lump on my left thigh.  The bruise is coming out nicely.  I've told Sarah all about it.  She has free rein to laugh at my pain as much as she likes.  Because I shouldn't lose my temper.
My lily white leg + cellulite + bruising.
Instant Karma does happen.  It happened to me.