I have heard the old adage about how hard it is to be a parent at least a dozen times, from at least a dozen sources. At least. Its hard for different people for different reasons and I often find myself equally annoyed by and in total awe of those who take to motherhood like a duck to water. I am never going to be that mother. Yesterday is case in point.
Just before one I needed to stop at Pick n Pay and get a few things for dinner, I opted to leave my phone hidden in the car for five minutes of peace. I know. Rookie mistake. Murphy runs around my life like a headless chicken, I really should know better. Anyhoo. Get back in car. One missed called from unfamiliar landline number and two from D. Annoyed with D so call landline and get a busy message. About to dial D when whatsapp message pops up “On my way to fetch Haedyn”. Blood runs cold. Heart pounding I call D. It seems Haedyn has taken a kick to the face during some or other game at school. Shit. Race to school. In an aside the school can be ever grateful D got there before me and calmly collected my child without demanding to interrogate the little shit who hurt him, they would not have gotten off so easily had I arrived first. When I see him he is swollen, has blood on his face and seems more or less in tact. I ask him to show me the cut and know right off that needs stitches. Again shit.
We downgraded from full medical aid to a hospital plan when I left the big corporate I was working for simply because R8k a month on medical aid was not a feesible option. Hospital plans do not cover minor wounds that need a few stitches. It is two days before pay day and I am pretty close to broke having paid for a wedding more or less on my own. Thank goodness for my sister in moments like this. We met her at the doctor and a few tense minutes, some local anaestethic and four stitches later we left with my kid in tact. The gash in his mouth was about 3mm from having gone straight through his cheek. Also, remaining cheerful to keep him calm while the voice in your mind is screaming at you to take care of this precious child you were given is hard, and very draining.
So at home we settled him with something for pain and some mindless rubbish on TV to just chill for a minute. I escaped to my room for five minutes to process this whole chain of events. I can’t realistically expect him to give up sport because of this can I?
By now its time to run the nanny home and make dinner. Rush through while sending emails that were neglected while running around playing ambulance.
Dinner apparently does not suit Mycaela. She sits in front of her plate, arms folded across her chest in full sulk. Anyone who knows her knows full sulk means you will get nothing out of her. You could hop sideways on your head and I assure you all that will greet you in response is that dead pan stare. Let me assure you it is not fun when your ten year old has worse tantrums that her three year old sister. After about half an hour I asked her what was going on. Death stare. I told her to put her dinner in the fridge but that she would not be given anything else, not food, juice or even water until she had eaten her dinner. Then the usual there are children with nothing speech and sent her to bed. More than an hour later when we tried to put Kyra to bed ( they are sharing a room while my sister stays with us) she was banging things around and making a noise just to prevent her sister sleeping. When confronted she stormed off, out of the house, out the front gate and off down the street. At half past seven at night, in the dark. Yup. Off I went to get car keys and follow her. Her only explanation, after asking her if something is wrong, if someone had done something to her, if she had been touched (worst fear) or something was making her act out, was that it is so unfair that she is forced to eat something she doesn’t like. Yes really.
She has seen a psychologist, no issues there, we have had extra lessons and offered rewards and handed out punishment. I do not know what to do with her. She told me yesterday she did not properly prepare for the exams they are writing. So another bad report despite my policing that she studies every day. She does not need to be in a remedial environment, we checked. She just doesn’t care and I don’t know how to get through to her.
This is what makes me cry more than anything else. Makes me question my ability to be a mother. Keeps me from sleep and makes me consider vodka fro breakfast.
My sense of humour died at around quarter to eight last night sitting in the car in the driveway, begging my child for the hundredth time to care.
How was your Monday?