Zen and the Art of Car Maintenance (or things that make me go GRARGH)

The Bloke of the House went away on Thursday for a very long weekend of fishin’ and man stuff, leaving me home alone with the Big Kid and the Little Kid. That in itself doesn’t make me go “grargh”.

Well, it does a little tiny bit – but only because the kiddies and I can sorta, maybe just a teeny-tiny little bit, get up each other’s noses on a weekend when we’re left alone together and there’s housework and grocery shopping and all those other bits and pieces that need to be done about the place. Although they’re more than happy to have the consequences of these bits and pieces, all they really want is a piece o’ they mama! Even if it’s the YELLING Mama

So I thought to myself very carefully “I knows, I will do all the housework at night, then I can play with the kiddies on the weekend, and there will be no need for yelling and maybe, perhaps, you never know… Some FUN could possibly be had.

Except I did not factor in the thing that made me go GRARGH!

The Big Kid came to work with me for a couple of days last week (as a side note, he was PERFECT, and compliments were received from the childfree along the lines of “if all children were like the Big Kid, more people would have kids”) anyway, Big Kid and I returned to the Big Red Car after a hard day’s work – Bags in, seatbelts on, off to pick up the Little Kid and get some tasty take away for dinner…

Except for the whole NOT actually going anywhere part. No ‘brrrrrrmmmm’ when the key was turned in the ignition because the whole key would NOT turn. Not in gear, not in anything and NOT going!

GRARGH!

Big Kid is under control, but the Little Kid? Has to be collected and soonish – WHAT would Ferris Do?

Call the Auto Club, of course.

So I called the Auto Club who confirmed what I thought… The key is stuck in the ignition.

 He hotwired it for me and got me going (yay!)

But he forgot to tell me how to turn it off (oops!)

 I had to call them again to find out how (and they are not supposed to hotwire cars like that, apparently, so the poor bloke is in trouble for doing me a massive favour) and they sent another man to turn the car off for me.

So here’s how I see my weekend… Driving around with a car with NO casing on the steering column, key stuck in the ignition AND whipping a screw driver out of my handbag to start and stop the car…

Of course, I couldn’t actually get it to start with the screwdriver when I tried to do it… Anyway, the Bloke has a Very Handy with Cars mate, so I gave him a call. He, being Very Handy with Cars and all that, was able to confirm that the key was indeed irretrievably jammed in the ignition and that I needed a new ignition barrel. Stat!

He started the car, laughed at my wussy girlie wrists that were incapable of turning a screwdriver in a teensy hole and starting a car, and parked it up behind the roller door for me.

He also laughed at my fear of car being stolen in its whole “doesn’t have any casing on the steering column and look! There’s a very handy screwdriver sitting on the seat” state of glory.

GRARGH!

Anyway, aforementioned Handy Mate located a sparkly new ignition barrel for me – and all I had to do was collect it.

Not a problem, load the kids in the car and drive casually over to the spare parts man and pick up the spare part.

Not a problem at all… Except for the whole “can’t turn the screwdriver because of the wussy girlie wrists” thing. Oh, and the “auto club guy turned the car off by unplugging the fuel pump and then I’ve parked the car on a slope all night and the fuel tank is at the back of the car” thing.

GRARGH!

Oh, and the parts shop shuts at midday, I haven’t had a shower and it’s 10.30am.

GRAAAAARRRRRGGGGH!

Showered, dressed, in the car, roll it down the hill and onto the flat. So far, so good (and nice to know one can actually roll an automatic if one needs to). Then I try to start the stupid thing…

Nope. No starting. Car No Go.

GRARRRGGGH!

I now have less than one hour in which to get this part. Breathe, breathe… centre oneself and calming thoughts and WHADDERYOU KNOW! It started.

YAY!

Turned the car off, bolted inside and bundled the kids out to the car. Inserted my trusty screwdriver into the slot and…

Nothing.

Sweet F.A.

NOT a peep. Just the sound of a car refusing point blank to turn over… And we’re down to 45 minutes.

Kids back inside whilst I called the Cavalry (hey mum????) But the Cavalry were off to the races, and were headed in the absolutely opposite direction.

I went back to wrestling with the car (plus I didn’t want my kids to see me CRY!) Still nothing. So, wiping tears of frustration and rage and general misery from my eyes, I called the Auto Club again…

NINETY MINUTE WAIT…

Then I really cried!

Then I calmed down a bit, called the parts guy and sent a taxi to collect my part with 23 minutes to go. And like magic, the plan came together and I had the part in my hot little hand. Yay!

Mission accomplished.

Of course, I managed to start the car the very instant the Auto Club arrived, because that’s what happens. So I moved my freshly started car, swapped it with the trusty ute and the stupid bloody thing is going to stay right where it is until Handy Mate arrives to replace that ignition barrel and I don’t look like a trainee car thief when I try to start it!

And what was the icing on the cake? What was the thing that really managed to completely and unequivocally made my day?

The sodding washing machine broke as well!

GRARGH!

 

Invincible Mother Pants

 Greetings from Chez Archer. 

Life has descended into chaos, madness and other related things generally involving output from orifices preferably dealt with by their respective owners. Unfortunately due to the lack of age of some of the owners of the aforementioned orifices, the attentions of Super Mother have been substantially required. 

This has resulted in two things. 

1. A considerable upswing in the average number of loads of washing; and

2. A dearth of postings from yours truly. 

With the parts of the second part directly caused by the increase in parts in the first part. Or something. Parts. Washing. Excessive bodily fluids flowing; creative juices not so much. You get the picture.

 

So far, the Little Kid, the Big Kid AND the Bloke of the House have been struck down by any combination of the two lurgies we’ve been accommodating. There’s the Gastro Lurgy and the Chest Infection Lurgy, both of which have knocked around the members of the household listed above. 

 

But did you notice who does NOT feature prominently on the list of afflicted members?

 

Oh, you did! Here, have a Tim Tam you clever thing, you. Oh, have two… 

 

Yes. Me. The Mother of the House. 

 

Despite being poo-ed on, spewed on (more times than I can count – five head to toe changes of clothes in a single day for me alone may give you an indication of the troubles I’ve seen) and having assorted noses wiped upon parts of my personage; I am yet to develop even the slightest twitchiest tickle in the throat, or even the most minute grumbling of the lower intestine. 

 

WHY is this so? This is indeed a question worthy of the Great Doctor Julius Sumner Miller…  

 

Mother of the House is bathed regularly in the output of two small children, yet manages to escape unscathed from the ravages of said illnesses? Bloke of the House catches everything that’s going round? It’s not fair, is it?

 

Although, if you think about it… it’s not all that bad. I mean I don’t have to race off to the toilet with a bucket and a box of tissues under my arm because sure as anything, if I don’t – one of the other bits will go off. I can tuck into a delicious meal without wondering about the impact on the more delicate organs. Well, I could if I could be bothered cooking a delicious and nutritious meal for one after a day of cleaning up effluvia…

 

Has to be in the pants, I tell you.

 

The Invincible Mother Pants

 

(worn on the inside, naturally!)

 

Make mine a double…

A double vodka valium latte thank you very much, and whilst you’re there, can you please remind me why I had children instead of sticking to child?

Yes. Today was one of THOSE days. One of those days that make you want to get in the car, make sure it’s filled with petrol and drive as far away as you can…

It all started when the Little Kid woke on the wrong side of his cot, and decided we’d moved to Opposite World for the day…

Now, breakfast is my favourite meal. I could eat breakfast three times a day (and that is a topic for another time); for me, breakfast has a ritual quality where I savour my meal, read the paper and sip on a cup of coffee. I like breakfast. This morning, however, the Little Kid had other plans for me. I made his breakfast – yoghurt and some of my berries in the vain hope that this would stop him from eating mine, and sat down with my breakfast.

Bzzzzzzzzzt.

Wrong answer.

Hand over the berries, woman, or I shall scream. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

I hand over the berries.

Kid 1 Mother 0

Then the Big Kid gets up and is ready for his breakfast. He has raisin toast. The Little Kid doesn’t like raisin toast. I suspect this is why the Big Kid *likes* raisin toast.

LK: Want rase toast, mummy

Me: You don’t like raisin toast

LK: WANT rase toast mummy

Me: But you don’t like it..

LK: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Me: Rolls eyes, hands over a slice of raisin toast and promises Big Kid I will shortly make him another piece. I force Little Kid to actually place his buttocks on the seat of the chair instead of hanging off it like a slightly berserk monkey.

LK: I no like rase toast mummy WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Me: Told you.

Kid 0 Mother 0.5 (still made the flippin’ toast, didn’t I?)

Moving right along to dressing the Little Kid. You’d be thinking that clothes that were perfectly acceptable two days ago would pass muster… well, if you were thinking that – you’d be WRONG.

Hysteria ensues as Little Kid screams that his clothes DON’T FIT and I join in with YES THEY DO. Little Kid also announces he  does not want to wear a nappy, and I decree that indeed he does, as he still tends to pee in random places. NO NUK JUST JOCKS MUMMY. Some wrestling follows and Little Kid is dressed in different clothes, but indeed wearing a nappy and jocks. These clothes were only partially acceptable, as he proceeded to spend the bulk of the day semi-naked.

Kid 0 Mother 0

Time to clean up the kitchen after breakfast. This involves stacking the dishwasher, and in order to stack the aforementioned dishwasher, one requires the door to be open. The following conversation was heard…

Shut door. No. Shut door. No. SHUT door. No, I need it open. SHUT DOOOR!!!1!! No. SHUT DOOOOOOOOR!!!!1!1!111!oneone. NO! WAAAAAAAAH. I’m finished now. Door SHUT Yay!

It is important to visualise my part correctly with one hand on the wire basket, one foot on the door, and the other hand alternately batting away the Little Kid and shoving dishes in as quickly as possible.

Kid 0 Mother 1 (I think I won that one)

At some point during the proceedings, I had a small and very noisy tantrum of my own. With door banging and some shed talk and a small amount of rending of hair. This lead to a very interesting hair day.

One of my very favourite books[1] tells me that inside every yelling person is a person who is not yelling. Unfortunately today, my not yelling person is sitting in a corner with her hands over her ears and rocking gently whilst dreaming of a vodka latte.

Kid 1 Mother definitely 0

And for the piece de resisitance…

Apparently I had my shoes on the wrong feet. Yes, me. The Mother. The one who is more than capapble of dressing herself. Lace up sneakers, no less. On the wrong feet. And the expectation was clearly there that I undo the carefully tied laces, place my shoes onto the opposite feet and thus continue upon my way. I thought not, and said so. His reply – WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH SHOES WROOOOONNNNGGGG MUMMMMMMMMYYYYYYY

Kid 0 Mother 1

I tell you what, it’s a good thing this kid is cute. Or he’d have a one way ticket to military school in his sweaty little paw right about now.

Oh, and the events described above?

Took place between 6.30am and 7.25am this morning. Yes. Less than one hour!

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[1] “Buddhism for Mothers” Sarah Napthali