Daughters.

Let me tell you about my daughters. I allude to them a lot, refer to them as 'pesky';'irritating' and generally more trouble than they are worth. And to be frank,  a lot of the times, they are ALL of those things. But I never seem to write about the fun times, the times when "holy-shit-this-is-worth it" HITS.

So here they are.

Mouse

My oldest daughter, intense in the womb and intense outside of it. Mouse's birth story is somewhere on here somewhere, and I won't rehash it - but it was rough. And mostly, it's been a very very steep learning curve to get where I am today.
Mouse races through her life, zipping here and there, fanatical about one thing one week, detesting it the next. Mouse exasperates. Mouse challenges. There's always a 'yes' somewhere for Mouse. And she succeeds more often than I care to admit.
She can make your heart break when she cuddles her little sister after a big spill. Especially when you've yelled at her over and over again for deliberately tripping that fat little pest.
Mouse stares at you with these long lashed intelligent eyes, and pours her whole heart into every conversation you have with her - so that you end up wondering just who's learning from who. She climbs into bed with me every night. I have tried to break her of this, honest, but she just looks at me with those fucking eyes and little beestung lips and tells me that 'it makes her feel better'. Or 'because I love you and I want a cuddle'. Argh. I been played. And secretly - I don't care. She'll hate me soon enough.
Mouse has wild curly fine hair, that twirls itself into fantastic sculptures every morning. Mouse must wear this wild wispy hair in 'scrunchies' that have to pull up the curls into a fountain of corkscrews. It's both the best and the worst hair I've ever seen.
Mouse likes to pretend and imagine and tell stories. Her imaginary friend pops up frequently, a little girl who by all accounts, seem like a perfectly nice little girl. Only Mouse could have an imaginary friend that she takes the blame for. Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?
Mouse can be terribly unkind. She can reduce little girls to tears. And then she can turnaround and tell another little soul that 'it's okay to be crying, it will get the sad out.'
Mouse will be an actress, a writer, a lawyer or a politician. That's what I think.

Alex

I used to think of Alex as the complete opposite of Mouse: dark where she is fair, straight hair instead of curls; green eyes instead of blue, and grounded as opposed to flighty. That  defined her, really - even her birth was straightforward and relatively uncomplicated.  But that's not true anymore. Alex is an imp, poking fun at the boundaries. And yet, she can instantly stop crying when I get sharp about her tantrums. She will mostly do as she's asked (or told. ahem.)
Alex loves to dance, she loves twirly skirts and dress up shoes. The sight of those tripled-barrelled legs stumping along under a flouncy skirt is to know the meaning of the words 'strangling laughter'. (She is obsessed with flouncy skirts lately). 
Alex is happy both in and outside the company of others. She'll play happily alone for at least half an hour, pouring water from bucket to bucket and singing to the dog.
She loves books - she can sit with books for hours.  She prefers Maisy lately, and I am thinking it is because the drawings are linear - in other words, it's the art, not the moronic story. It must be the art -- she has scribbled over every wall in my house, despite me going incendiary and cannot be trusted with any kind of writing implement.  She finds this grossly unfair.
Alex is amenable but stubborn and will worry away at an issue until a solution has been reached (good = cookie; bad=shouting) and then cuddle you no matter which way the solution went. She loves to kiss you and cuddle, and yet if it's not on her terms, she holds out and you can beg and plead for naught.
So I have no idea what this child might be. She might paint; she might parent; she might do something I can't imagine yet - but I think it will be essentially solitary. That's odd to think.

Whore.

I have become an ebay whore. We are tight for cash (when aren't we?) due to my hub's inability to realise that:

• a)he's supporting a wife and two kids on whatever he earns;


• b)he sometimes has to do jobs that pay better that he doesn't like (oh boo-hoo) because of a) above


• c) his tendency to raid the bank account for high priced lattes and sarnies for lunch ($12 for a coffee and a tuna sandwich, are you kidding me? That's two outings for the kids!!)  and


• d) taking clients out for lunch and then 'forgetting' to tell me or budget for it.

So then we (meaning me and the kids who are budgetting to within an inch of our lives) have no cash to do anything. And then the enforced boredom turns my children feral and me into a slathering mess. There's only so many fun crafts to do with egg cartons and pipe cleaners, ya know. Especially if you are a mum like me, who's only doing this shit because the kids like it. When they stop liking it, it's time to hit the pay-as-you go entertainment.

Argh.

So last week, I'd had enough. It had rained all week, the kids were a nanosecond from being locked in the closet with rats and spiders like Carrie.

I raided every closet and every box in the garage for things to flog. And wow... what people will pay for stuff I don't want anymore. Okay, there's been a few tears, especially over little eeny weeny baby clothes but tears won't put dinner on the table. Or fund Mrs. Paxil.

And so here I sit, obsessively refreshing my browser over and over again, to see how much moolah I am making. Getting pissed at people who won't even bid on my lovely stuff. Don't they recognise a bargain? Don't they realise I wept real tears over those little pink overalls? Whassamatter with them?

However, I found the best solution is to write the descriptions after a snootful and half of cheap Aussie plonk. (After last week, I drink my wine from a beer stein, believe me). You'd be surprised at what sheer bluntness does to whet a buyer's appetite. Telling them that if they don't like it, they can email me and bitch - works wonders.

But there is a  bad side to all this whoredom.

 I am a packrat and a sentimentalist (who me?) and keep everything my children have ever worn, and written, or drawn or played with. I keep old love letters, watches that don't work because I had a romance with the boy that gave them to me, postcards from old lovers, manky old thread bracelets from Simon the would be poet,  rock tshirts from concerts that I don't remember because I was so blitzed I had to buy the t-shirt to convince myself I went... you get the picture. And then I trip over something one too many times, or can't find a particular item because it's lost in the midden of memorabilia and then I get ugly.

I mean, why the hell am I keeping a silver pair of celtic cross earrings when I think they are naff? Just because I bought them in Ireland? Or a pair of tiny baby shoes were worn once at a christening? I hate them, I only bought them because it was church.

Everything becomes a candidate for removal. I am ruthless - winnowing out things with nary a glance. Posting ebay listings like a fiend.

Ka-ching, ka-ching.

And then I find myself browsing items and thinking 'wow, that's so lovely' and realising it's MINE. And praying frantically that the said morons who don't bid, won't bid and I can wrap it back up in tissue paper and not look at it again for another couple of years.

I am an idiot. A soon to be cashed up ebay whore, but an idiot nonetheless.

Ps. own a piece of me. go on, go bid on some of my crap. Tear my heart from out of my chest. Better still, don't.

Rude.

I constantly perplexed at the number of pencil pushers who feel the need to be outright rude and unhelpful when dealing with their fellow human beings.

Let me explain.

I have done some work for a former colleaque who runs a successful software business. The kind of work I have done is marketing - developing marketing material for his products. I do it because I like the work (sort of) and I need to keep my skills current. And it's something I can do from home.

But listen, this guy and his company are classic procrastinators. They set deadlines and don't get back to you until the day before, drop out of the communication loop for days on end, and fancy themselves marketing experts (read: taste experts). So given that I am writing copy, developing web sites, designing brochures, organising printers and distribution - a simple little job adds up to a lot of work. I know that, and I do it anyway for the reasons above.

And then comes payment time. Bear in mind, because I do this 'unofficially' from my home, I do a deep discount on what it would cost him to go elsewhere. Because as I have said, I need the business and quite frankly, the extra money and let's face it - he'd probably get much flashier promo bumf elsewhere.

But I am not a company, and in order to get paid, I need to juggle all sorts of things and call in favours from other people who are grownups with companies, so that I can invoice him.

Sometimes, I forget.

So back to my story. I sent an invoice for my time and work at the end of August. Payment terms are and always have been 7 days from invoice date. Last week (two and plus weeks later if you are counting), after being told by my friend that the invoice had been sent out, and he was upset I hadn't got it - I get a call from some boffin in his accounting department.

Who is fucking rude. Pompous, cutting and rude. The convo went something like this:

"Is this Stressmagnet?"
"Yes it is - whom am I speaking to?
""It's Asshole here, I have a very very big problem with your invoice."
"Oh yeah, sorry to hear it. Why is that?"
""Because you have invoiced us in your name without a tax file number and this is very wrong. I will only pay you 48% of the invoiced amount and you can claim it back from the taxation office."
"Oh. Well,  this was a personal job for Friend, and that's why there's no taxation number." (I know stupid)
""I do not care that it was a personal job, it is very wrong and I will only pay you 48%."
"Hold on, hold on - I'll send you another invoice okay?"
<'he hangs up on me>

So I call another friend and get him to make me an invoice on his company's letterhead and then I scan it into my PC and send it to my Buddy as a PDF (which is how I've sent every damn document before this), asking him to send it on to the 'gentleman in accounting' (my exact words). Nothing more, not a whit of nastiness or anything. I did ask, given the delay in the payment, if in fact, the funds could go into my bank account. But if not, no problem, just let me know.

Silence. for almost another week. Until I send Asshole a query email asking him if he did in fact receive the email, to which I get a snotty reply that he had already replied, the 'gentlemen' in question was HIM and in fact he had two MORE problems - he can't print it out and he won't make out the cheque to me because I am not a company. AND that there was no delay in his payment. Get my facts straight.

Well shit. He obviously just cannot be bothered to print it out - and fucker, if you don't tell me you have a problem with the invoice until two weeks after I emailed it to you - and you don't tell your Boss either so he looks like a liar - then I would indeed say we have a delay in my fucking payment.

What gets me, is his overt hostility to me. I've done nothing to him, I've kept my emails informal and friendly and there's no need for him to be such a prat. So now I have sent the damn thing to my husband, who will print it out and fax it to Asshole.

To me, it is how you treat people that gets you work. Or clients. Or repeat business.

I always go the extra mile for my clients, and always try and take a little off the top. I am friendly, I rearrange things when I am on a job, because I know that businesses don't care whether your child is sick or you have to go to Swimming lessons. That's part of the unwritten contract when you work from home. But in return, I expect respect, courtesy and some leeway in the fact that this is informal, such as - I understand you have last minute changes, you understand that my kids often take the opportunity when I am on the phone to shriek like banshees and,  I informally take 10% off the price -  you informally expedite my payment anyway you can without making me feel like shit.

Quid pro quo, ya dig?

Because I could write a stinging email to your Boss and phrase it in such a way that you will rue the day you tried to boost your flaggin ego at my expense. I will get you exiled to a rural bus station selling one day cut rate excursions to the local cannery. Just because you are the kind of person who personifies assholedom, doesn't mean you can treat me like shit.

I have yet to send another email. I have not yet decided whether to let it go, or be petty and vengeful.

This made me laugh and laugh and laugh. What are the chances of this coming up at this point in time?

Maybe my daughter should have this tattooed on her face.

On second thoughts, I probably should.

Thanks ignatzmi!

Dump

All I want is for my friends to be happy and cared for and feel cherished. All that seems to be happening with one particular friend is that she wears the shit sombero while tap dancing on the toilet seat.

This whole 'love' thing has me flummoxed. Really. Here I am a woman of a certain age, and I have probably never ever been in love the way the books and movies and poems all yodel about. PUHLEESE.

Oh wait, when I was 15 and in love with Phil Corbett (Phil, are you out there?). I was dreamy and flustered and couldn't think about anyone else. All this for a guy with muttonchop sideburns. At relatively conservative calculations, I have slept with a bunch o' men (not really that many, but enough to be interesting)  and had monogamous relationships numbering three. That's right - three. Including the current one. At some point, before I lived with them, I went through that goopy stuff for about a nanosecond - long enough to agree to share their living space (and in two cases, their legal rights). But in each and every case, that wore off pretty quick.

In the first case, I dumped him. In the second case, I divorced him and in the third, I have decided that genuine affection and heartfelt interest in how he does, is enough to keep me married. (And the fact we have two kids, of course). I suppose this would hurt him deeply if he read it - but it shouldn't. As far as I am concerned, what I have now, the real stuff, the stuff about when he snores you don't fantasize about killing him (well you might, but it would be quick and painless) and the dirty socks on the floor and his inability to hold a job for longer than 2 paychecks -- is what a good relationship is all about. You take the good with the bad, clear-eyed; with nerves of steel to see it through. You base the relationship on mutual respect (as in, he may ball up his sports socks, but he comes home early to take care of the kids when I am feeling sick vs. I am an untidy untidy person who can't fold laundry to save her life, but I cook his dinner every night) and hang on for the bumpy ride.

The goopy dreamy stuff doesn't go the distance.

If  all this respect and understanding and tolerance vanishes (because let's face it, tolerance is a big fucking part of two people living together) that's when you call it quits. And you have the grace and the foresight to end it with the respect you lost along the way. Why? Because you were once loved, and you once loved them.

All my exes - even the ones that ended messily - still respect me. They don't gossip about me, they don't tear me down to mutual friends, they don't gang up on me. Because at heart they were good men, and at heart, I am a good woman, despite my many faults.

Don't treat your exes like shit, people. It makes you look small and mean and childish. And it makes them glad you are gone. Try to be remembered as a wonderful interlude in a rich life - not as a black hole where nothing existed but hate and anger.

Diva.

More on the daughter below. I am starting to think she will need to go on stage. Give her any opportunity at all, and she bursts into song and wiggles around like some sort of demented Moulin Rouge dwarf. I am at a loss to understand where this urge to perform comes from, since I was the type of kid who quietly went to the bottom of the garden to look for fairies. I was the type of child who sat in corners, reading books. I shunned people. She on the other hand, goes to the bottom of the garden to order the fairies around and dance the fairy dance loudly over and over and over in front of an audience of imaginary thousands.

My computer is right underneath her room, and as part of my sanity program, I insist that the child who-never-shuts-up, retires there for some 'quiet time' each day. During that time, she must entertain herself, hopefully (but rarely) quietly. Sitting here, I can hear her voice narrating some long convoluted story to her dollies and leaping up and down off the bed while she acts out all 187 parts. The leaping is accompanied by various squeaky voices and general hilarity. Often she disappears into her room, only to come out dressed like a crazy bag woman - today's outfit was  purple spotted highheeled boots, a pink striped miniskirt, an gold sequinned glitter top from god knows where, black and yellow bee striped stockings, a pink plastic handbag, a clothespinned towel around her neck, a tiara and the piece de resistance - a foam rubber pig mask.

I nearly choked into my coffee.

Plah.

My head hurts because I have a boatload of snot in it due to the umpteenth cold I have caught from one or both of my children. I swear, I've been sick since June. Furthermore, I have a shitload of stuff I've written that I'd like to put up here (to make up for not doing it for over 6 months) but I cannot be arsed. Life is too tough lately. I need to deal with manageable problems. Such as raising children to be little drones.

My kid is in trouble at preschool for calling another child a 'fucking idiot'. I personally don't get what the problem is - from all accounts, the child in question is in fact, an incredible fucking idiot. However, little girls shouldn't say such things, even if the fucking idiot is trying to hold her down and kiss her after she said no. I explained to the preschool that she was just 'using her words' which is something they repeat ad nauseam to the little dears - but apparently, there are acceptable words and unacceptable words.

Just like kids, I guess.

I need to sit her down and tell her that Mummy prefers to call people 'twats' lately. That's a much better word.

Okay.

I am over my little tantrum over Mother's Day. Really I am. I am old enough to ask for what I want, and not expect people to mind read. Even if I think that a fucking chimpanzee could mind read what a tired baggy saggy unkempt mama wants for Mother's Day, it's still my choice to simmer.

And I choose not to. I have enough dramas in my life (believe it or not) and little enough joy in my days lately, that I don't need to manufacture any more reasons not to get out of bed in the morning. It's 4:30pm here, and I am so tired I am gagging, and I've still got another 5 or 6 hours left to go before life in the Magnet household winds down and I can crawl into bed and read half a chapter before crashing out cold.

Dramas.

Daily.

Last night, Child One had her usual attack of the screaming meemies at 10:15 that went on and on and on and on until midnight. Now you cannot just tell a child to fuck off, no matter how much you want to, no matter how certain you are that said child is just yanking your chain. Because children do things for a reason, and I am sure Child One is well aware that I am having issues about my sucky life and is subconsciously trying to reel me back into the warm loving ever-patient mothering place that she cherishes. Boo ya. After a day filled with tantrums and lost socks and spew and grizzling grimy children - all I want at 10:30 is for her to FUCK RIGHT OFF. There, I said it. And I hate to admit it - I said it to her, sometime around the third episode of screaming without telling me why and the requests for one last hug. Even though you aren't supposed to say it to a child, I did.  Then of course I felt like shit, so I apologised and added another dollop of guilt to the complicated mix that is sitting like a boulder in my stomach. And I let her into the big bed. Even though it meant I would sleep lousy.

Then Child Two started up at around 2am. On and off, crying and screaming, until I tried to get her into the big bed so Hub wouldn't bust a gasket at being awakened early. (He gets up at 5:30am and works long days, okay?). So then it was party time for the kids in the big bed, with much snorts of laughter and noses being poked and eyelids being pried open until I sent them all back into their own beds at about 4:30am. Did I mention Hub gets up (and by extension the whole house gets up) at 5:30am?

I managed to fall back asleep at around 6am till 8am, dreaming blissfully about being on Survivor. (No food? No water? No toothbrush? Immunity challenges? Piece of piss if you don't have two kids tugging on your leg every minute of the day. Bunch of big girls, all of them, those pantywaist Survivors. )

I had to get up cos we had a playdate arranged and besides I really love the woman who was coming and and and...but  lots of kids, lots of chaos, lots of noise, no naptime and here it is, not even 5pm and I feel like it's a million o'clock. The kids are upstairs alternating between fighting, playing and shouting down requests for juice/milk/dinner/television and every so often they want to come down and hang with me.

No fucking way. I know why I feel like this - today wasn't out of the ordinary. They suck the life out of me sometimes. Now, in the distance, Child One has managed to bang or hurt herself somehow, which will require my immediate attention. Because of course, I am down here, and they are up there. Lots of screaming and wailing. And I don't even care. I don't care if she's got blood spurting out of her femoral artery, her arm sticking out of her ear or her ribcage showing outside her chest - go away.

Let me have just one hour to regroup. To recharge before I have to pretend (cos that is what it is right now) that I give a shit that you've learned how to hop on one leg. Or pick your nose and eat it. Or remove a Polly Pocket shoe from Child Two's mouth.

Do you get it? Life is hard enough on a day to day basis round here lately - for me, at least. It's hard to care 24/7 passionately about everything, when no one cares about you. No one is taking care of me, and I am sick and exhausted and feeling like my life is passing me by and my Hub is stressed and I can't remember what he looks like and no one gives a shit about me, but me.

This is why I cannot be arsed to hold on to the resentment I had on Mother's Day. Because you have to just do it - whether you are appreciated or not, whether you get the bare minimum of down-time any human being needs in order to maintain your sanity or not, whether you are sick, whether you are battling the urge to run far far away - you have to do it anyway. You  made the choice to have children. You may not have realised how deeply shitty and completely fucked your days can be - but they definitely didn't. So you go on, snarling at them sometimes, apologising for being a crap mother, dragging yourself out of bed after 3 hours sleep and do the best you can. Sometimes it's not even that good. Sometimes, anyone would be a better parent than you. Sometimes the best you can give is just plain awful and you feel ashamed later.  But it's all you've got.

And it's all they've got. So you need to let go of anything that isn't right there in the moment of parenting and just deal with what you can on a day by day basis.

Mothers Day.

Sucked as usual. Listen I know it's my fault - I expect too much. I really buy into the Oprah-Hallmark moment shite that tells me I will be appreciated and celebrated and that it is my special day and all will be peaceful and light.

Fucketty. Lemme tell you about Mother's Day. Firstly, I have to 'allow' my hub to sneak off when we are BOTH doing the supermarket shopping to go and buy a card. Actually, I have to tell him to do it. Because if I don't - there won't be any, and that will really really bum me out. And ya know, as bad as it is to have to remind someone to go and get you a card, it's worse when you don't and there's nothing. Trust me on this. I've done it  both ways. So anyway, since all I am getting is a card, you'd think it would be a nice one, but no, I go looking for him and find him in the $2 Shop, where all Mother's Day cards are 75 cents and made out of thin flimsy cardboard with spelling mistakes on them where someone has badly translated the sentiments from Korean.

Fucketty. So he graciously says that I can sleep in the guest room so I can get a full nights sleep (Child One is having  night terrors and Child Two is teething) and then, he sleeps thru not one but both kids screaming. So I am running up and down the stairs all night until 3am.  Granted, I do get to sleep in until 10am - but trust me, this counts against me in the great sleep scorecard, so I won't be lying around napping off my 3 week sleep deficit in the afternoon, since after all, he gets up every day at 5:30am. (and wakes the whole house up too, but I digress).

So I've arranged a lunch at a restaurant. Note please, that 'I' arranged it. Not him. Me. And we have to leave at 11:30am. So I get up, receive my gift from Child One (a spangly papermache necklace which I adored) and her own handwritten card, and make the kids breakfast. Because even though they've supposedly been up since 7am - they have not yet eaten. Or gotten dressed.The TV is on blaring, the youngest is crawling around in a soggy diaper and the oldest appears to be eating Fruit Rollups. He, however, has managed to smoke half a pack of cigs.

So I jump in the shower, get both kids dressed, iron a shirt and off we go. He gets himself ready. Wherein the kids misbehave wildly at the restaurant, Hub gets the pouts because he is stuck feeding the baby for a change and basically I am so depressed that this is my life, that I just want to run away.

So I sit on the couch until it's time to make dinner and watch Oprah tell me how valued motherhood is.

Yeah right.

Yell.

I must not shout at my daughters.
I must not shout at my daughters.
I must not shout at my daughters.
I must not shout at my daughters.
I must not shout at my daughters.

It's Sunday night, and once again, here I sit, paralyzed with remorse over what can only be described as a "shouting fit". On this case, it was occasioned by my whiny eldest, who'd been an absolute pill all day - whinging  yet again about dropping her 'Mary Kate and Ashley' ring under the bed. What was making me squirm? How about screaming "Good! Those girls are idiots and stupid and you should be playing with that fucking ring when you are supposed to be a-fucking-sleep anyway!"

Just a mere hour earlier, I was a poster child for Perfect Parents. The same child was howling inconsolably because she'd bumped her lip on her sister's head (don't ask, I didn't) and had cut it. About two specks of blood were dribbling down her chin. Her lip swelled and this was the excuse not eat anything that I had lovingly (okay, grudgingly) prepared for dinner. All this heartbreak delivered in a tone that would send grown men shrieking into the wilderness to become hermits and at a decibel that rivalled Snoop Doggs. F.U.C.K. But I surprised myself, I really did - I just softened up and cut her some slack.

And the other one was glaring at me while spitting out anything that was placed in her mouth. This, the same child, who cannot leave me alone for a second, who has redefined the hoary old image of a woman with a child clinging to her skirts, was giving me the 'fuck you' look. I like this kid too, enough to endure a little shadow 12 hours out of 24, and to laugh off the puke in my hair. But not enough to take the 'fuck you' look. And I was being reasonably cool about it.

But then, didn't we both pay for all that good loving likable  great mother time later?

Blah, blah blah... the whining, the wailing, the ring. I went purple practically. She dived under the covers so fast she left vapour trails.

Okay, so I know I was feeling put upon all day, and I know that I ignored all the indications that I was going to blow unless things went perfectly from that point on. I know all that. And I still growled at her. Honestly,  I don't want to be that kind of mother. Hell, I don't even want to be that kind of person. If I snarled that kind of invective at an adult, they'd either punch my head in, or call the cops.

So it's totally self serving and hypocritical of me to do it. And I hate it when I do. But I try not to whack the kids, and I guess that shouting is my version of a short sharp slap to the behind. I don't want to debate the whole spanking issue, because I'll tell you right now that there have been a few times in Mouse's life where she got spanked. And not one of them was because she was running out into traffic or talking to strange men. But I hated myself when I did that as well - it was all about me wanting to let off some steam on the nearest available body - nevermind that it was usually the culpable one. It was mostly about me - I wasn't  teaching her anything. Well, I supposed I was, I taught her that she can't whack her baby sister, but it's perfectly okay for me to whack her. I can't see that making sense to her too much longer - she's a bright kid. So I desperately try not to spank and I am pretty successful. Maybe.

I yell, figuring it's the lesser of two evils. I've tried explaining, I've tried 'time outs' I've tried 1-2-3 . Lett me tell you, if you write a book about it, I'll read it. I know she's spirited and I love that about her. But she also has to live with me, and her father and her sister - and she needs to learn the rules.

1. No whinging, whining or snottiness. If you are like this, you must be in bed, even if it means you are there all day.
2. No hitting or otherwise harming your sister.
3. No hitting your mum and dad. Should you be foolish enough to do so, a mighty wind shall befall you and your world will disappear.
4. Don't interrupt.
5. Tantrums will be laughed at, and Mummy will sing the 'jump up and down like circus clown' song until you stop. If you go subsonic, you shall be placed in your room, and Mummy will turn up Metallica to drown you out. So. give. up.
6. Eat your dinner, failing that, eat enough of it that you aren't hungry, and don't hold your nose and yell 'it's stinky'.
7. Let old folks on the bus first.

So see? It's not that bad. And written like that, it's certainly not worth shouting about. Or smacking. Or getting hot about, there's plenty of time and plenty of time to practice all of that. In short, there isn't one damn thing on that list that should make me feel as bad as I do right now. All for just trying to get through the day. She's a kid, she is still learning all of this stuff. She's still learning about all of it.

Me too.

Sometimes, even when you don't realise it, parenting sucks.