Tag Archives: chaos

Telemarketers

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It’s past lunch time and the kids are desperate and exhausted. I’m disorganised… again.

LL is screaming around the house with his train, hysterical with hunger. I have strapped Blossom into her chair after three near-head-on collisions with said screaming train. I have vegemite from one end of the kitchen to the other and I have just dropped the cheese.

The phone rings and somewhere in my desperate mind, I hope it is Mr D calling to offer some calming words of encouragement, or my mother ringing to tell me that she is out front and ready to take the mad toddler away for a moment, or my publisher calling to say they have sold the movie rights to my book for multiples of millions of dollars and that I can afford to have a full-time nanny to scrape the cheese from between the floorboards…

Me: Hello?

Them: …

Me: Hello?

Them: … click-brrr…

Me: (clearly not thinking straight, because if I was I would have hung up by now) HELLO?!

Them: Oh hello. Am I speaking with, uh, Mr Dewbury?

Me: (Do I sound like a Mr to you?) No.

Them: Oh alright, is this 49-bla-bla-bla?

Me: (You dialled the number, dipshit) Yes.

Them: Oh alright then. Am I speaking with the owner of the house?

Me: (Say no, say no, say no) Yes.

Them: Oh alright. And I take it you are working part time?

Me: (What the? You take it?) No.

Them: Oh alright. Well this is not a sales call. I am just calling you for giving you some informations, so this is not a sales call so ok do you work part time?

Me: (Not a sales call my arse. Did I not just answer this question?) No, I work all the time but I don’t get paid for what I do.

Them: Oh ok, um, excuse me?

Me: (Oh go away) LL leave your sister alone! No, take the train off her head NOW! As you can hear I have small children and I do not get paid to look after them and I am not interested in whatever you are offering.

Them: Oh alright. So your husband works then?

Me: (And what if I didn’t have a husband? What if he just died or if I was a lesbian? What would you say then?) Yes and I’m still not interested, thank you.

Them: Oh alright, so does he earn more than $70,000 a year? Just an idea of course I am not needing to know exactly just an idea…

Me: (Fuck off!) That’s none of your business, my children are screaming for lunch, I have vegemite from here to eternity and I am not interested in what you have to sell me, thank you very much, good bye.

Them: Oh madam this is not a sales call it is only information…

Me: (Madam?) *beep…beep…beep…*.

Why do they always push me over the edge?

Later I fantasise about the conversation I would love to have with a telemarketer…

Me: Hello?

Them: …

Me: Hello hello? Earth calling telemarketer? Come in!

Them: Oh hello. Am I speaking with, uh, Mr Dewbury?

Me: Yes! Well, anatomically I am still Mr, but I am well on the way to a complete physical transformation, so you can call me Ms Dewberry if you like. That would make me happy.

Them: Oh alright, so this is Mrs Dewberry?

Me: No, darling, that would be my mother, God rest her soul. No, I am in the process of a gernder re-assignment, so I guess you could say I am Mr on the outside but Ms on the inside and working on bringing my inner goddess out.

Them: Oh alright then. So, Mr Dewberry? Are you the owner of the house?

Me: Well, we are really all Stewards, aren’t we? I mean anything that I have is not really my own in that it is all given by God into our care for the short period that we walk this earth, so in that sense I am not so much the owner as the minder of this home.

Them: Oh alright. So you are renting?

Me: No no. God doesn’t ask payment.

Them: So you are the owner?

Me: If you say so.

Them: And I take it you are working part time?

Me: If you love what you do, you are never working.

Them: Oh alright. So your husband… er wife… er is working then?

Me: We live off the land. My husband-to-be is actually out back lopping the head off one of our chickens as we speak. I will harvest some potatoes and rosemary for the roast, right after I finish plucking the poor dear. Bless it’s soul. Amen.

Them: Oh alright, so does he earn more than $70,000 a year? Just an idea of course I am not needing to know exactly just an idea…

Me: It’s a she and I’m not sure where a chicken would get that kind of money. What would a chicken do with money in any case? You do ask some strange questions…

Them: Oh alright… um… excuse me?

Me: Chickens. You asked if the chicken earned 70 grand a year? Doing what, exactly? Not laying, that’s for sure – in fact, that’s why we decided to eat her; got to lay your way in this family, so to speak…

Them: *Click-Beep…beep…beep…*

Me: Hello? Hello? That’ll learn ya.

One day I’ll have the presence of mind. One day…

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Amen to a new week

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Last week went something like this:

I cleaned up the cubby house while The Lion poured sand over his sister’s head to distract her from all manner of garden materials she was eating. Mr D had a huge week at work planned, so I was all hands on deck for dinner and bedtime and damned if I didn’t do a fine job of it on Monday night.

But then Tuesday came with my first period since Blossom showed up… I should have known the day was going to get ugly, but I went to playgroup at the park anyway (despite the gale-force, furnace blast of a wind). I lost my phone long enough to put me in a mood that could not tolerate LL’s constant nagging and inane questions. So, when his winging became too much, I threw both kids back in the car and cried all the way home (there’s nothing quite like a toddler shouting at you to shoosh when you’re feeling down – got to love that compassion).

LL spent the day thwarting ALL his sister’s attempts at sleep and whining that he was a baby in need of boobie, Blossom’s sachets of mush, and being carried around in the Ergo (he’s 14kg and I was in no mood to get all ‘attachment parenting’ with him, sorry). Blossom spent the day grizzly due to lack of sleep and attention. Dinner time saw me sprayed in stereo by kids who thought ‘Bolognese Raspberries’ was the best dinner time game ever invented, so being the solo all hands on deck again, I went for bath time early.

They splashed the majority of the bath water on me and when Blossom became suspiciously still and silent, LL suddenly announced that he was swimming, dove headlong into the water and jammed his feet fair up Blossom’s bits. This would have been a problem even if Blossom hadn’t just smeared a giant turd along the wall of the bath – the very same turd that became LL’s toe jam.

Bath time over.

Blossom was placed on the mat (where she finished the poo she’d started in the bath, before her brother rudely interrupted her) and I fought with LL over the right to clean the shit from the tub.

Bed time (remembering that Blossom was desperate for sleep) saw me drag the two of them outside for a walk in utter frustration at 7.00pm because Blossom needed to sort her digestive problems out (before I sorted them out for her)and LL was running laps of the hallway, screaming AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

When Mr D came home at 8.30, Blossom was still sorting out digestive issues and I was tucking into my second glass of bubbles in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Then Wednesday came, cold and grey, and began at 5.45am with LL shouting that he wanted yoghurt (WTF?). After getting up every 2hrs through the night to Blossom, I was in no mood to be woken, much less shouted at. But, being the mother earth that I am, I silently rose, gave the Lion his yoghurt and went back to sleep on the couch. For 10 minutes until he started picking my nose.

During preparations for daycare (I luuuurve Wednesdays and I don’t care if that makes me a bad mother), I discovered that both LL and Blossom were sporting a blotchy, pimple-like rash around the nappy region, on the feet and on the hands, but in the absence of symptoms around the mouth, fever or any other signs of dread disease, I rang The Magnificent Mrs L and asked if she would be ok with having LL anyway. Bless the woman’s soul, she thought nothing of it (especially since it was only going to be two of them)!

So, I left the Lion with TMML, Blossom with Grandpa G (while poor Nanna H was in bed dying of a sinus headache, ear infection and pain/drug/illness-induced nausea), and I went home to clean like no man’s business. Who would have though chores could be so satisfying?

Alas, upon bringing the kids home, I discovered a massive ulcer in LL’s mouth, he ate no dinner, drank no smoothie , no ice block could entice him. He sported a 38C temperature and all signs pointed to Fucking Hand Foot and Mouth Disease. Again.

He fussed and shouted and pretended to be a dog for over an hour at bed time and by 8pm I had finished the bubbles from the night before and was working on a little Southern Comfort.

The rest of the week was thus:

No more days with TMML 😦

Cranky Mr Lion-Blotch and little sister Blossom-Blotchette.

No kids eating, much kids whining, even more Mummy-trying-to-entice-with-bite-sized-morsels-of-every-treat-known-to-kids. And failing.

Mr D cranky that he was at work. Still. Again. Until 10.30pm. After a 6am start. Again.

I drank Bourbon and Dry in the absence of Scotch.

Amen to a new week this week!

Santamania

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I don’t get the Santa photo thing. Sorry.

I just don’t see why it is so important to drag your reluctant children, dressed in their Sunday best, kicking and screaming, bribing them with “whatever you want from the shops afterward”, to stand in a line half a mile long to sit on the lap of some smelly old man with a bad (and often disturbing) disguise, to pretend to be happy for the camera, so you can spend a small fortune for merchandise that you will either never look at again or that will forever be tainted by the heartache involved in getting the kids there in the first place. PHEW! What a mouthful!

But plenty of people seem to be committed. Committed to a level I am kind of impressed by. Take, for example, one family I observed for some twenty minutes while The Little Lion obsessively drove one of those truck rides that sends parents broke or insane (depending on their resilience against the ‘I want’). They came prepared in a way that suggested it was not their first Santa photo expedition.

There was mum, dad, nan and pop and somebody I guessed was a relative of some kind (judging by her manhandling of the elder child). The two daughters were about 3 and 5 and were dressed in matching, angelic white dresses with bows in identical ringlets and pretty, new sandals to boot. They were perfect… for the first five minutes in line.

Then they were bored.

Then they were ratty.

Then they were hysterical.

Then they were downright horrid.

Then it just got so nasty I had to look away.

And through it all, the army of adults enlisted to contain the girls and maintain their picture perfection fought to stay in control. The girls screamed. They ripped at their bows. They threw themselves on the filthy ground and slid around on their bellies like snakes, trying to escape the clutches of their Santa-obsessed care-takers. And when mum reminded the elder that she could have whatever she wanted after the photo, the self-possessed little miss stopped screaming and, cool as ice, said, “Do you have the money?”

“Yes, of course I do,” said mum, sounding a little less confident by the second.

“Show me.”

“We’ll put it on the credit card.”

“You don’t have the money!” she shrieked.

“Here, here, I do,” whimpered mum.

“I want it now. I want it NOW. I WANT IT NOWWWWWWW!!!”

It was at this point that manhandling relative grabbed the girl by the wrist and dragged her from view which sent younger daughter into a fit of tears so dramatic that nan and pop took her from the scene also.

You would think a Santa photo rain check would be in order, no?

No. Mum and Dad stayed put in the line, determined to see this thing through.

I wonder how they looked up there on Santa’s knee…

 

Happy Christmas to you all!

Raging

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I’ve just spent 600 dollars. Yep 600 happy ones.

What did I get for it? Sweet diddly squat. Nichts. Nada. Niet.

Why would I do such a thing? I mean, why not spend $600 on a sorely needed new wardrobe (the clothes, not the space in which to hang them)? Or some sorely needed new computer software to help me in my creative pursuits? Or on delicious, delightful, divine trees for my garden? Or on a few nights away? Or on books, books and more books? Or on stationery, or on cooking classes, or on haberdashery that I will never use or movies I’ll never watch or diamond encrusted knuckle-dusters to beat the living daylights out of the stupid old bat who cost me the 600 bucks in the first goddamn place?!

Why? Because of one ridiculous moment and the gross overreaction of a dumbass, that’s why.

Common scenario – leaving the shops (too late) with a car full of groceries. Blossom screaming her head off for some arbitrary reason (as babies do) and Little Lion roaring back at her with wild accusations that she (at 7 months old and with an acre of car between them) had stolen his water, had touched his hair, had hurt his hammer and had, God forbid, smiled at him. In the melee, Mother was heading rapidly toward a melt down.

We stopped at the traffic lights. I turned around to give LL one of my best in my saved-for-special-occasions angry voice. He was lamenting the loss of his water bottle and I spotted it, just beside his car seat. I reached with my Go-Go-Gadget arm (does anyone else still refer to him?). I twisted and stretched and…

BUMP – the car stopped again, rather curiously.

Next thing, a crazy fat old bat starts peeling herself out of the car in front of me, gesticulating wildly.

I open my door to escape the screeching only to be struck by:

“YOU HIT ME! YOU HIT ME! NOW WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? YOU HIT ME! WE’LL HAVE TO PULL OVER ! GO STRAIGHT THROUGH THE LIGHTS! STRAIGHT! DON’T YOU DARE DRIVE OFF, DO YOU HEAR ME?! OH! OH! WE HAVE TO PULL OVER! YOU… I… OH! WHAT’S THE DAMAGE? WHAT’S THE DAMAGE?”

Sweet fucking lordy lord, the woman was insane.  And the ‘damage’ was two pin-prick scratches off her bumper that I cannot guarantee were not made by flying fucking rocks a few goddamn light years ago. The thought to just drive off would not have normally crossed my mind, but since she suggested it…

Bloody conscience needs to learn to shut the fuck up. If I’d have driven off I would not only have saved myself the $600 excess, but the 15 minute ordeal of listening to her have a bloody coronary.

“Oh, I never. I’ll have to call my husband. I don’t know what to do. What are we supposed to do? Shall I call the police? Oh, this has never happened. I’m panicking…” No shit, lady. You ever had screaming kids and melting ice-cream in the back of your car? Give me the pen and I’ll give you all the bloody details you need to commit highway robbery of the first degree.

And to cap it all, the moment I slammed my door on the hysterical woman, the kids stopped their screeching and Little Lion, in his most convivial tone said, “Bye bye Lady!” and waved cheerily through the window.

Just peachy.

Cringe-worthy

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Kids are talented, some more than most, and Blossom really showed what she was made of the other day.

I had to do some fruit and veg shopping and then quickly duck down to the Motor Registry Office to sort out the registration for my new urban assault vehicle. It was to be a short-ish trip, and The Little Lion wasn’t well anyway, so I decided to go sans snack box. Bad move to begin with.

No sooner did we arrive at the green grocers, did LL kick up a fuss that he wanted ‘fout’. It was quite a fuss that extended to not wanting to sit in the trolley and wanting to ‘queez’ every item on the green grocer’s shelf. But I’m getting pretty adept at handling LL’s moments. I don’t even feel the eyes of every stranger in the store boring through me any more. I just carry on as though there is nothing unusual going on. But this time, LL set Blossom off and it became dire in no time.

They feed off each other, don’t they? One cries and the other trumps them with a howl, then a wail, then a scream. When the volume reaches fever pitch, the coughing and spluttering starts, or the flailing limbs or the flying spittle. It was spectacular and I thanked the heavens I hadn’t attempted the side-by-side trolley thing. At least LL wouldn’t be able to scratch, bite or eye-gouge Blossom, so long as I kept the baby carrier far enough away.

I figured my only chance at finishing my shop was if I managed to calm one or both of them. And quickly. I could see the manager’s hand on the telephone, phone book open to Social Services as I handed LL a banana, making a big deal of adding a single, loose banana to my bag to prove I was not trying to rip them off. I could feel the manager’s fingers caressing the 000 button on his phone.

LL stuffed the banana in as though he hadn’t eaten in a week and proceeded to shred the skin onto the floor, but Blossom kept up the fight. She was screaming and fighting the carrier like it was a straight-jacket, so I decided to turn her around. Maybe she just wanted to see what was going on instead of being tortured by the smell of mum’s milky bosom.

I unclipped her, hoisted her out and in so doing, squeezed just the right amount on just the wrong spot. I have never heard volume like that from a 5 month old before. It reverberated through the shop. It sent shock waves that rattled the cash registers and sent apples tumbling to the floor (OK, maybe that was LL helping himself to an ‘apool’ while my hands were quite clearly full).

An innocent bystander, clearly horrified by my daughter’s lack of decorum, gasped, “Oh dear!”

“Excuse me, well, her, I mean…” and then I realised what she was actually gasping about. It wasn’t so much the ear-shattering noise as the ungodly stench that followed.

Yep. It was enough to wilt the lettuce. It was the kind of stench that you run from, but it lingers and follows and trails you wherever you go, so there’s no denying it’s yours; the kind that burns into your clothing and drifts past, long after the memory has faded.

Blossom was triumphant and as her face broke into an enormous smile, she puked all over the kiwi fruits.

You can guess what we’ll be eating for the next few weeks. The manager was so glad to see us go that he didn’t bother charging me for The Little Lion’s extra banana and he offered to carry my bags to the car.

Later, as we waited in the Motor Registry Office, LL scrawling all over the forms they leave lying around on tables that are just the right height for toddlers to reach, I reminisced about all the cringe-worthy moments my children have given me and had a quiet chuckle to myself. Like the time LL commented on top note when he saw a very obviously very sick man being wheeled out of the hospital, life support buzzing, helicopter waiting, with a wave and a congenial “Night-Night!”. Or the time he tried to kiss every child at the playground because it was time for us go. Or the time he pulled my top up at the bank because “Bubby boobie.” Or the time he did a Poo-Splosion of gargantuan proportions while we were shopping in Spotlight, covering me , himself and the baby carrier in a yellow-green paste…

Yep. If you can’t laugh about it, you’ll die. It’s as simple as that. And given Blossom’s form, there’s plenty yet to come.

And so it begins

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There is only one way to sum up my day on Monday – 3pm nip. No, that is not a typo. I did NOT mean to say 3pm nap. I meant 3pm nip. In fact, it may well have been a double shot… I can’t be sure. And no, I was not guest DJ-ing on my local radio station, though if I was, the double shot would probably have been an ACDC coupling of “Problem Child” and “Highway to Hell”, or maybe Rage Against the Machine “Know Your Enemy” and “Take the Power Back”, but alas, it was a double shot of Dr Smirnoff’s rescue remedy.

“What?” I hear you cry. “What could drive a warm, responsible, earth-mother goddess to drink at 3 in the afternoon?!”

A 2-year-old, I tell you. A 2-year-old.

I didn’t believe it  was possible. I thought “The Terrible Twos” was a scare-campaign, kind of like Y2K, hysteria perpetuated by mothers looking for something to blame for their children not being perfect minature adults like their outfits and hair-dos suggest they should be.

 Humble pie, people. I’m eating it by the trailer-load.

It began at 5.30am with a warm bottle of milk designed to put him back to sleep. It had the opposite effect of quelling his hunger and sparking him to life. I managed to convince myself that the shouts of “MUUUUUM! MUM! MUM-MUM-MUM!” coming from his room were part of my tortured dreams for a full 10 minutes before I caved in and dragged my sorry self out of bed.

The 5.30 start progressed to a 5.50am tantrum – NO NAPPY! NO-NO-NO! – followed by a 15 minute battle to get a jumper on him, a pair of track suit pants and his slippers. Why do I bother?

This was followed by 40 minutes of raging because I refused to grant his request for George Monkey, even when he brought the DVD to me with a sweet “Preeeeze Mummy”. I don’t know. Is it unreasonable for a mother not to want her 2-year-old in front of Curious George at 6 in the morning? Stupid, perhaps, I mean I was clearly asking for a fight on that one, but surely a line has to be drawn…

Anyway, all attempts to distract him with breakfast failed – No chair. No Weet Bix. No Toast. No no no no no. Tanie? Preeze Mummy, Tanie? Again, is it unreasonable for a mother to want her child to eat something slightly more sustaining and with a slightly less laxative effect than sultanas for breakfast? So I compromised and put the sultanas in his Weet Bix.

Well, wasn’t that the red rag… For those of you unfamiliar with the extraordinary properties of Weet Bix, when thrown around the room and not cleaned up within 75 seconds of hitting any kind of surface, Weet Bix mush dries like cement. In fact, I am considering using it next time I am in need of some cement render. Fortunately, LL was courteous enough to go around picking the sultanas out of the globules of hardening brown slop to compliment the cold spaghetti he had dragged out of the fridge and up-ended on the floor. A nutritious breakfast after all.

It was at this point in our morning’s kitchen redecoration that Blossom woke, demanding to be fed. And it was at this point that LL decided it was imperative that he climb to the very top of my head using only my hair as leverage. Blossom, unable to feed with her brother’s overwhelming presence became increasingly frantic and I lost the last handle I had on my morning’s composure. “Oh, just go away…” I blurted.

That’s right, folks. I said it. And yep, it was repeated back to me ALL FREAKING DAY!

I won’t bore you with the intimate details of my attempts to go the beach with a girlfriend and her daughter (of course forgetting Blossom’s hat on only the sunniest day since February), or LL’s 20-minute cat nap in the car at 9am, throwing all hope of a decent afternoon nap out the window, or his sudden fragility in the coffee shop where we tried to hold a civilised conversation. Nor will I detail Blossom’s increasing fussiness at not having a single peaceful moment to suck to her heart’s content, or LL’s refusal to eat when in said coffee shop and his demands for lunch about 10 minutes after we arrived at the beach, his dissatisfaction at what I had packed and his wails for Chippies when he saw those damned golden arches on the drive home. It was then that I finally gave in to his whim. I needed comfort. NOW!

So we drove through. Him a juice and chips, me a Big Mac with no meat patties and a vanilla thick shake . Yes, you read right. No meat. I know, I know – it’s a lettuce and pickle roll, but I’m vegetarian, so I get the sugar bun with the plastic cheese and the mysteriously enticing sauce and then throw a veg burger on it when I get home. At least, that was the intention until LL pushed a chair to the bench where I had carefully place my burger-to-be out of harm’s way.

It was something about the little shreds of lettuce fluttering through the air before they hit the floor, the way the pickles stuck to the cupboard doors, the way the bun perfectly complimented the strands of cold spaghetti and the splattering of cemented Weet Bix that just did it for me. I cried over spilled burger-to-be, and when LL asked with grave concern, “You arite, Mummy? You arite?” I wanted to scream, “What the fuck do you think!?”

Instead I tried getting him sorted for bed time. This was met with the kind of reception you might expect: “NO no no no no… Run run, Mummy. Run run!”

From past experience, I know this is LL code for “I’m not going to settle down until I have done a monumental poo and that monumental poo is not going to happen unless I am given ample space to move and ample solitude to bear down in private.” So I sent him out the back door with a flourish and settled into the armchair in Blossom’s room to give her the first bit of quiet attention she had had all day. It was not long lived.

She suckled, she drifted, he crashed through the door, trailing and ungodly stench. I held my ground and composure.

“Poo-ey Mummy!”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said quietly,”We’ll finish boobie and then we’ll change your nappy.”

To which LL demonstratively sat down, rubbed his backside from right to left and grinned, “Squish!”

The conversation repeated, to which LL shouted, “NO!” and ripped the velcro tabs of his nappy open and did a delicate little squat to ensure the nappy dropped all the way to the floor. I practically dropped Blossom, whipped the nappy over his shit-covered backside and dragged him to his room amid violent protests (from both of them).

Bed time brought a battle over where to sleep – No cot. No cot. NO COT! – and by 3.07pm, when I had finally managed to get Blossom to bed and The Lion to sleep on a mattress on the floor in his room, I went to the kitchen.

I sat on the floor with my burger-to-be lettuce and cold spaghetti and a glass filled liberally with Dr Smirnoff. Neat. On ice.

And I damned well deserved it.

Cockroach anyone?

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I am still sick and this head-full-of-snot disease took a rather sudden and unpleasant turn for the worse tonight.

I was quietly sitting watching some crazed woman run into traffic while stricken police tried to stop unaware motorists on one of the myriad of “Reality Police Dramas” that occupy the Sunday night screen when my ear suddenly took up the wail of the police sirens and began to throb. You know, that throb that only an ear can do. The one that pierces your skull, dislocates your jaw and sends you around the twist all in an instant. The one that pops and crackles and makes you certain your ear drum is going to bust right out of your head atop a geyser of puss. Yep, that’s the one.

This was some hours ago now and it has only just occurred to me, as I lay sleeplessly cursing my damned head, why this crackling, agonising ear is doing my head in so badly – emotional scarring. That’s right. I’ve been traumatised and now am absolutely paranoia-stricken.

Some months ago, Mr D was on a bit of a fitness kick and was getting up at 5.30am to go running/cycling. This was great. He was happy and I got immense pleasure out of somebody else leaving the warm bed to exercise, having given over many a morning to the training gods myself. The only trouble with this routine was that, creep as he may, Mr D’s leave of absence was waking The Lion, and so it was on this particular morning, that Mr D crept from the house and Little Lion called out.

I ignored him for the obligatory 10 minutes, then gave in, sat up in bed and in so doing disturbed a small cockroach. I heard it flutter and I jumped, waving my arms madly, as one does when startled by a small flying creature. It landed in the vicinity of my ear and I shook my head like a furious horse, slapping at the side of my head and, to take shelter from this onslaught, the bush-roach crawled into my ear. Yes. INTO MY EAR. Not just into the outer, flappy part. No. INTO MY EAR. Right down deep into to hole.

It didn’t take long for the hapless creature to realise that there was no way outa there and it found itself stuck, quite tight. Well, it thought. This is a bother. I guess I’d best START DIGGING!

 

Yep. I lost it. Big time. It was THE WORST PAIN I HAVE EVER EXPERIENCED. Worst. Hands Down. Not to mention knowing there was a cockroach burrowing through to my brain.

I flew into action. I knew I had to go to hospital – I had seen a man with a beetle in his ear on one of the myriad of “Reality Hospital Dramas” that occupy the Friday night screen. And the pain whenever the little bastard moved was UNBEARABLE. So I whipped LL out of bed, got myself dressed, made him a snack box and was in the process of getting him dressed when Mr D returned, took one look at my tear-streaked face and thought “Geeze! Lighten up, lady, he’s just out of bed a little early…” 

Then I began to scream and hold my head.

He took over LL duties and I drove, yes I drove myself to the hospital, heavily pregnant and screaming at random moments as though possessed by demon voices in my head. When I showed up in emergency they whisked me in to see a doctor in no time.

Alas, the doctor on duty had never faced a cockroach extraction before. In 2 ½ hours all she managed to do was anaesthetise the roach long enough to rip off part of its wing and it’s backside (revealing that it was, in fact, a pregnant female roach and isn’t that funny – a pregnant cockroach in a pregnant lady’s ear! Yes. Fucking hilarious. Excuse me for not laughing myself stupid…).

So when roach-ette woke from her anaesthetic, she was doubly pissed off. Not only was she stuck in a black hole, but she’d had her wing shredded, her arse removed and her egg stolen. All in all, a bad morning, so best get digging.

After 2 ½ hours of having my eardrum scratched out by a cranky cockroach, a doctor pull and prod and yank at said cocky (each move eliciting a cry of agony, I might add), numerous syringes of water shot into my ear with a force to blast my eyeballs from their sockets but having no more effect than saturating my top, and two attempts at vacuum extraction, the doctor gave up, I cried and she handed over to the next shift.

He took one look. Shook his head. Poured oil into my ear (I think it was olive, but he assured us that canola would do). Killed the sucker dead, dead, dead. Sent for an eardrum surgery kit from the operating theatre upstairs and in two swift movements with the apropriate tweezers, pulled the beast from my ear. It was the size of the top of my little finger. Man how I screamed as he yanked it out. Man how I screamed as he flushed and vacuumed the left-over legs and bits of cocky backside from my battered ear drum. Man, how sick I felt for the rest of the day.

And man, how paranoid of buzzy things near my head am I now?!

PS: Little Lion, by the way, had a fabulous time exploring the hospital’s emergency area. He was a star, everybody loved him and he enjoyed his adventure emense ly. Good for him.