The dude is stood there, gloves on him that were obviously originally crafted for giant-forearmed people…he is brandishing a huge proddy thing. I didn’t care, I was ready to take him on, I needed fuel, so he was going to have no choice but to stop prodding, and open up for me. I think I wafted enough 'crazed mum, nearly out of fuel in total panic' vibes at him, well, I actually straight out told him to ‘give me fuel, give me fuel now’ I think my exact words were…so he consents. And I do not run out of fuel on the school run, which is always appreciated. Especially as I have 2 different schools to drop the kids off at. I shall, however, avoid the garage in question for a while, till enough time has passed, he may forget me. Well, I can always live in hope…!
As Alex took umbrage over my recent blog-see blog below- where I call him a hulk-wannabe, he chastised me, telling me I made him out to be a 'meat head'-his words- therefore, I retract my statement, and if I replace it with: ‘In fact Alex had wanted to be a fairy’ when he grew up, would that do?? Well, I am sure to find out after he has read this! Joke, babes, god forbid my actions should cause one of those ‘brink-of-divorce’ discussions…! Anyway, The Friday morning, I drop the kids at school, come straight back to the school where my 2 girls are, and I do the Bibliotech (library). It’s great, capricious 5 year olds changing/rechanging their books, me forcing dodgily entitled books (although I think the monster who died of too-small-bum-hole syndrome has been chucked, phew), as I am a bit pushed for time, and children’s snail-like pace does not always suit me. After I have done the book lending, I then rush home, throw Esmie at Alex (literally throw, he missed her once too…ok, not a true story), then race back to my son’s school, to accompany his class of 7/8-year-old kids to go to their swimming lessons. I am volunteered to go in and ‘help with the garcons’, I apparently wasn’t quick enough off my feet, and the other mums tear off faster than sh*t off a shovel to be with the clean, well-behaved girls. I enter the boys’ changing room. At first I am not even really sure I am supposed to be in there, and come in head based, half closing my eyes, then realise that entering a changing room, head down, you’re actually bang in the wrong eye-level zone of 15, 7-year-old boys. My head immediately shoots up, and I semi-extend my arms to guide me to the bench eyes FIXED on the ceiling. I have walked into another world. And one I am not familiar with either. I was the oldest of 3 girls, I have one son, and 3 girls. I went to an all girls’ school. I AM a girl. Pants/trousers/socks, anything they can get their hands on is being flung round the room, shoes have become weapons and this naked 7-year-old tribe is literally uncontrollable. Clothes are being flung at each others parts, frequent rude gesticulations (so rude), real-live swear words uttered, play fighting, that I am sure will just end in tears (just love that parent expression!). I stand and watch, feeling a wee bit out of my depth (well, it’s like a scene from Lord of The Flies), working out how best to I am to handle this. PLAN! “Hey boys!” note, no response, increase decibels, decibels increased, shriller tones ensue:
“HEY BOYS!” Remarkably, I get the attention of 3 or 4 of them, but that’ll do.
“Carry on like this, and you’re going to be big fat losers”...
“Hey?” one of the naked ones asks, looking fairly offended, but I am going somewhere with this.
“Well, surely you want to beat the girls, and be the first in your costumes and out there on the bench?”
Winner! *silent, multiple internal air punches* Appealing to their competitive side (who says men are shallow and predictable?), they cheer gruffly, as do I (it made me cough) and I succeed. I, all by my little self, tamed single-handedly (I am going to drag the ‘all by my self’ bit out for a bit), 15 naked, 7-year-old-boys. Wow. Did I say I did it by myself? No? Oh, well I did.
I am also pleased to announce that I have added yet another name to my string of ‘the snorts drugs for breakfast-bigly-forearmed-English-copes-so-well-(not)-mother’ names (please refer to earlier blog http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2010/12/oh-shame.html to *get* my frequent references to snorting drugs!), being that of ‘Murderess’ AND before you judge, read on…On the way home form the after-school Bibliotech trip, in front of me is a dead pet rabbit on the road *audience goes ahhhhhh*, I swerve, and curse the person for not having had the decency after having killed it, to have moved it, at least, to the side of the road. I pull over, and wait for some cars to go by, not wanting them to think I had done it, and the owner sprinting out of their house with a big broom stick to beat me with (or worse, this is France…). I walk up to the rabbit and reach down to gently transport it to the grass curb, giving it it’s last rites (only I am no vicar, and I think once your dead, it kind of negates that too right?) I am about to lift it, when I begin borking uncontrollably, as I had so not expected to see the ‘run over cute pet rabbit’ with it’s guts splayed half way to Egypt, and it’s eyes still attached to the cornea thing but by the same token, popped RIGHT out of the socket, and lying beside it’s face. At this point, a car drives by, and it’s a mum from school. Which is obviously great for me, given my reputation, as at that moment, I had no choice, I had to follow through with my act, and I kind of half pick it up, half scrape it up off the road, and rather than the gentle funeral marching to the grassy curb I had originally had in mind, I hoy this revolting remains of rabbit as far as I can. It hits a wall and slides down. OMG. *borks uncontrollably having flash backs*. Now the mum from school thinks I did it. And I will spend the rest of the week waiting for a knock at my door with the owner of the dead lapin (french for rabbit), big broom in hand, getting whacked for my ‘good deed’. Life is NOT FAIR!!!
Have a good week end!