rivetting news
It's 9am and today's Battle O' Le Nap has already begun. That bullshit the other day about tossing the books and lo! lookit the boy going off to sleep with the shush/pat combo? Lasted two days so yeah, is bullshit. Whereas once the shushing and patting entertained him as he quietly refused to sleep, now they're accompanying him as he launches into a much more vocal opposition to my desire for him to trot merrily - and sleepily - down the path to the Land Of Nod. His determination to stay awake is impressive actually, rivalled only in magnitude by his vocal range and its related ability to shatter glass, so he's missed anything even closely resembling a nap for two days, three counting today, preferring instead to scream through any attempt tha's been made to lull him to sleep so he can pass out from exhaustion later, much later, in the afternoon.
I'm reporting from the front line kids,because as I type, we're five minutes into day three of this, my second attempt at screwing the boy up with his own abandonment issues.
We're supposed to be visiting a childcare centre this morning too, which is another story and one I should probably tell one of these days...and with now being as good a time as any, why not tell it now?
Daniel will be going into childcare for three half days each week.
There.
Now maybe I'll elaborate on it one of these days.
Anyway, we're viewing a centre today to assess its suitablity for my precious little boy, and to possibly enrol him, which is likely because a) spaces for little babies are as rare as hen's teeth, b) the only other two centres that have a place didn't impress me, and c) if phone conversations are anything to go by, this one has me wanting to move in there with him so they can take care of me too.
But we'll have to go another day because unlike the past two days, the controlled crying worked after ten minutes this morning, yay, and there's no way I'm waking the Kraken now in order to get there at 10.15. He's been pencilled into their manifesty type thing already anyway, so my decision is the only reason he'd miss this space. Oh the headiness of absooute power, etc.
Coincidently, and this carries no weight in my decision to go there or not, especially since my memories are less than stellar and more of that mean kid teasing me because he was The King Of The Castle and I wasn't, the fucker, I went there as a child too. My mum didn't appreciate the concept of stablity, so I was carted around to a bazillion different childcare centres when I was an wee young thing. I was the perpetual new girl, and while it wasn't full time care, the only memories I have of that age are of being at various centres and watching the other kids play. I remember nap times too, of lying in whatever little stretcher I ahd for the day, in a darkened room, clutching the pink teddy bear with the sewn on mouth that Father Christmas gave me at Dad's work's Christmas party, and of quietly crying for my mummy. So yeah, now I'm gonna give the same gift of lurve to my son. Rock.
In other news, my shower screen has been repaired, if by 'repaired', I mean 'sodomised'. The glass was cracked when I moved in, and last year I finally arranged for it to be replaced after another tradesman (who, as an aside and unlike the stream of morons before him who siliconed the tiles because yeah, that's really going to repair a leak behind the taps*, accurately located the problem in the plumbing in the freaking wall) informed me that a) it was dangerous and b) should have been repaired by my landlord tweny odd years ago when it happened. I was all over that so arranged for its repair last year, which went ahead this week.
Some really tall, nice guy came and took the damn thing out, and then a few days later some old, grumpy fuck came back and futzed around putting the stupid thing back in, before leaving with nary a hoot or a wave. He did such a good job that I had to call the company back to fix the results of what amounted to the shower screen equivilant of a fuck up the arse. Seriously, the screen was in upside down, the doors were off their tracks, and I was all wondering about the freakout I could have should those doors decide to jam. A shorter, grumpy old guy came back and told me that it owuld ahve been cheaper for my landlord to replace the damn thing with one that wasn't twenty million years old. This one had apparently died in the arse, and that while he'd put the damn doors on the stupid track, the broken little wheelie things meant they'd never run smoothly, but they can't be replaced because they're too fucking old. The upside down thing impressed him too, but there was nothing he could do to fix that because I don't know.
Next on the agenda, last Tuesday, my uncle and his new Ferrari: firstly, let it be known that I don't buy into that Day Of The Devil crap. secondly, my uncle totalled his two week old Ferrari with my mum in the passenger seat. They walked away from the wreck, nursing only a broken collar bone and ribs (him) and a sprained ankle (her). They're both okay, so we can all say 'Poo!' in the face of this supposed devil person (aka the figment in all good Christians' imaginations) The crash meant that she didn't arrive in town yesterday (a trip which she announced only the day before hand) which honestly? Was a gift from The Other Figment himself
Also, she turned 66 on the same day. Also also, my inner lapsed Catholic is going to burn in hell for pretty much all of that last paragraph.
I'm reporting from the front line kids,because as I type, we're five minutes into day three of this, my second attempt at screwing the boy up with his own abandonment issues.
We're supposed to be visiting a childcare centre this morning too, which is another story and one I should probably tell one of these days...and with now being as good a time as any, why not tell it now?
Daniel will be going into childcare for three half days each week.
There.
Now maybe I'll elaborate on it one of these days.
Anyway, we're viewing a centre today to assess its suitablity for my precious little boy, and to possibly enrol him, which is likely because a) spaces for little babies are as rare as hen's teeth, b) the only other two centres that have a place didn't impress me, and c) if phone conversations are anything to go by, this one has me wanting to move in there with him so they can take care of me too.
But we'll have to go another day because unlike the past two days, the controlled crying worked after ten minutes this morning, yay, and there's no way I'm waking the Kraken now in order to get there at 10.15. He's been pencilled into their manifesty type thing already anyway, so my decision is the only reason he'd miss this space. Oh the headiness of absooute power, etc.
Coincidently, and this carries no weight in my decision to go there or not, especially since my memories are less than stellar and more of that mean kid teasing me because he was The King Of The Castle and I wasn't, the fucker, I went there as a child too. My mum didn't appreciate the concept of stablity, so I was carted around to a bazillion different childcare centres when I was an wee young thing. I was the perpetual new girl, and while it wasn't full time care, the only memories I have of that age are of being at various centres and watching the other kids play. I remember nap times too, of lying in whatever little stretcher I ahd for the day, in a darkened room, clutching the pink teddy bear with the sewn on mouth that Father Christmas gave me at Dad's work's Christmas party, and of quietly crying for my mummy. So yeah, now I'm gonna give the same gift of lurve to my son. Rock.
In other news, my shower screen has been repaired, if by 'repaired', I mean 'sodomised'. The glass was cracked when I moved in, and last year I finally arranged for it to be replaced after another tradesman (who, as an aside and unlike the stream of morons before him who siliconed the tiles because yeah, that's really going to repair a leak behind the taps*, accurately located the problem in the plumbing in the freaking wall) informed me that a) it was dangerous and b) should have been repaired by my landlord tweny odd years ago when it happened. I was all over that so arranged for its repair last year, which went ahead this week.
Some really tall, nice guy came and took the damn thing out, and then a few days later some old, grumpy fuck came back and futzed around putting the stupid thing back in, before leaving with nary a hoot or a wave. He did such a good job that I had to call the company back to fix the results of what amounted to the shower screen equivilant of a fuck up the arse. Seriously, the screen was in upside down, the doors were off their tracks, and I was all wondering about the freakout I could have should those doors decide to jam. A shorter, grumpy old guy came back and told me that it owuld ahve been cheaper for my landlord to replace the damn thing with one that wasn't twenty million years old. This one had apparently died in the arse, and that while he'd put the damn doors on the stupid track, the broken little wheelie things meant they'd never run smoothly, but they can't be replaced because they're too fucking old. The upside down thing impressed him too, but there was nothing he could do to fix that because I don't know.
Next on the agenda, last Tuesday, my uncle and his new Ferrari: firstly, let it be known that I don't buy into that Day Of The Devil crap. secondly, my uncle totalled his two week old Ferrari with my mum in the passenger seat. They walked away from the wreck, nursing only a broken collar bone and ribs (him) and a sprained ankle (her). They're both okay, so we can all say 'Poo!' in the face of this supposed devil person (aka the figment in all good Christians' imaginations) The crash meant that she didn't arrive in town yesterday (a trip which she announced only the day before hand) which honestly? Was a gift from The Other Figment himself
Also, she turned 66 on the same day. Also also, my inner lapsed Catholic is going to burn in hell for pretty much all of that last paragraph.
posted by aibee at 09:06
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