My tween is speaking in ‘joined up writing’!

My tween is speaking in ‘joined up writing’!

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Hand on heart, I have no sodding clue what my child has said to me since he woke up this morning. Not. A. Clue.

Officially he is still in the Tween-Zone but the teens are approaching quickly, far too quickly, and I can see the changes kicking in as the minute’s tick by. About a year ago the greasy hair arrived. Like some sort of monster from the deep lagoon, it was disgusting! As a former hairdresser, I strode into the situation with confidence that things would soon be under control. There was nothing I hadn’t seen or dealt with during that fifteen year period of my life. I was so confident that I would go so far as to say that I was cocky. It was with my chest  puffed out and a glint in my eye that I doused his head in clarifying shampoo and began to scrub.

Five minutes passed; I was dousing again.

Another five minutes; repeating the process for the third time.

Fifteen minutes later; my former glory had left me and I was rocking in a corner, banging my head on the wall, muttering in tongues ‘It won’t go!It won’t go!’

Eventually, it did go but not until we’d called in the  big boys. Sand-blaster, acid bath, sheep-dip, and so far we’ve managed to keep the  beast tamed and under control.

And then came the spots. Overnight, my beautiful boys’ baby soft skin erupted. I don’t know what was worse; the fact that I was totally unprepared and went into a mini-melt down or the fact that he didn’t care. When I tried to casually introduce an element of skin care to his morning routine, it was brushed aside. Apparently, he’d rather have the spots and the extra five minutes in bed. Maybe, this is simply the difference between girl teens and boy teens? Or  the difference between the (healthier ) state of his self-esteem versus the (unhealthy) state of mine at a similar age. I hope the latter. A few ‘You-Did-Great-Mom Gold Stars’ would be nice at this testing time.

After the spots came the B.O. Seriously, we don’t even want to go there. It’s early. Some people are still eating breakfast.

And so, back to this morning, we have finally arrived at the ‘speaking in joined  up writing’ phase. It’s probably pushing the legal boundaries, referring to it as ‘speaking’. It’s a sort of low, continuous noise without a break. Somewhere between the subsonic rumble of an earthquake and the call of a whale in distress. I’m quite in awe. I can only assume that he’s breathing in through his arse because no proper exchange of oxygen appears to be taking place either through his nasal or oral cavity. I have of course checked his vital signs, just  to satisfy myself that what we have got happening is ‘Tween-itus’ and not some kind of nasty bacteria or alien bodily takeover. It’s definitely not bacterial. the alien take over  I’ve not ruled out completely.

The most astounding thing ( to me) about this situation is that he doesn’t seem to realise what he’s doing. The sounds that are coming out of his mouth, to his ears, obviously still sound normal! 

Joint frustrations are mounting!

I think I may go shopping once I’ve finished my coffee, sat here in Nero’s. With all standard methods of communication failing between The Colonel and myself, post-it notes and biro’s are the future. Aside from that, I guess I just have to make sure he is fed and watered at regular intervals until such time that he evolves beyond the grunting stage and rejoins us back in the land of the living.

I don’t know if there is enough cake in the world to get me through this.

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I’m Declaring Today, International PJ Day

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Today is officially a PJ Day, and, I’m officially making it international so it doesn’t matter where you are in the world, I’ve gotcha back.
Following The Captain’s Nothing Day, yesterday, unsurprisingly, I now need to recharge. I think I’m a fairly typical female when I say that I really don’t function well on not enough sleep and too much daily demand. What usually starts out as a ‘bit of a low mood’ when I wake, speedily runs towards the grand finishing line of ‘Holy mother of all the gods, the sky has fallen down on my life and everything is such a mess’.
If I don’t listen to my body and my energy levels,by tea time I’m entering myself into every ‘worst mother /ugliest woman/ terrrible’est ( yes I made that word up) friend competition’ that I can find; secure in the knowledge that I absolutely will win them all. These days are known in the (female) trade as Fat & Ugly Days, and as I’ve already mentioned, generally pop up when we are tired, or due on (when we aren’t living through a ‘Clumsy Day’ or ‘I’m Just Gonna Cry and Eat Chocolate Day’).
So for today, I’m taking a breather. The kids will have to survive on pasta. The clothes washing will have to wait so we may be wearing dressing gowns and flip-flops tomorrow. The dishes will have to wait, and yes I’m prepared for the fact that we could realistically end up eating out of Tupperware pots and drinking from a measuring jug by this afternoon. And in the absence of having a special someone to hand me a glass of wine and tell me that everything is going to be okay, I shall probably pour myself one; and everything will be okay.

Happy International PJ Day people.

 

Disclaimer: This post does not restrict me to only one PJ Day a year

Gardening Tip No.1 (According to The Captain).

 

 

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We, The Captain, The Colonel and I, were driving back home one day, not  that long ago when we passed a newly sown lawn. Dotted around the edge were multiple wooden stakes with numerous plastic bags attached to them. Blowing in the wind. Rustling for all they were worth.

“What are the carrier bags for Mum?” Asks The Captain, pulling himself up to the back of my driver’s seat.

“The gardeners use them to stop the birds from stealing the seeds and damaging the new grass when it begins to grow,” I replied.

There was a pregnant pause as he leant back into his own chair, the cogs turning as he considered the answer he was given. Suddenly the penny dropped and he sat bolt upright and screeched,

“ … So you mean they use the plastic bags to suffocate the birds? …

 

Not quite child of my loins, not quite.

The mind of an Asperger’s teen is a wondrous thing … unless you are a bird … living in their garden.