Where do I start? With Mother’s Day, because I woke up with a hangover for starters, entirely self-inflicted (as they always are) but entirely worth it, since we’d enjoyed a lovely night of celebration with my Mum and family.
Head pounding, in my niece’s bed, the kids short-circuited the required sleep-in with obligatory hand-made presents (from Little Yang) and the rather lame effort from Miss Yin of a store-bought card, in which she’d lied written, twice for good measure, that she loved me. And then they were out the door with hardly a peck on the cheek let alone a vote of thanks. Cousins beckoned. Quad bikes and dogs and games and fun. Maybe I was grateful for small mercies.
I did however have to get up for a family breakfast and surprisingly felt better than by rights I should have as the day wore on. I managed to hang in for the birthday cake for my brother-in-law who had to suffer his occasion being overshadowed for all that gushing over mothers – supposedly.
In my recovering hung-over state I was a little miffed that Mr Yang had outlaid for my Mother’s Day present precisely $2 for the card from the cheap shop that Miss Yin had written in. I did feel a bit better since he was uncharacteristically slack and forgot to ring his own Mum until after we’d arrived back home in the afternoon!
Things went downhill. Miss Yin growled and might have mentioned that she hated me, twice for good measure, whilst we were in the midst of homework and some preparation I was trying to do to help her with her NAPLAN English test.
I must admit I yelled. I exasperated. No doubt I infuriated. I swore. But she wasn’t supposed to have said she hated me on Mother’s Day.
She also stubbornly resisted folding the washing, which is supposed to be a pocket-money chore, but I would have almost gratefully accepted as a ‘gift’ on Mother’s Day. It’s the small things.
Little Yang melted down with tiredness from hanging with the cousins as I headed off to teach my Sunday evening yoga class (yep on this occasion, the last thing I wanted to do, be all YIN-like).
I arrived home to the left-over curry we’d taken to my sister’s house as part of dinner, bringing home the remainder. I microwaved it myself. In Mr Yang’s defence, I’d told him not to worry about dinner, but still, it was Mother’s Day. No-one even made me a cup of tea.
I might have cracked it a bit as I grumpily took myself off to bed, cracking it more the next day when Miss Yin’s attitude hadn’t improved. It was like she was determined to make things worse. And she seems to have taught Little Yang well to call me b#@chface!!! For my part, I might have let off a superlative or two.
Showdown the next day as things continued to spiral downward, only I had to moderate my madness since she had NAPLAN. I stood my ground (possibly threatening divorce) with Mr Yang insisting Miss Yin would have to miss her dance classes that night as a consequence. And she seethed, but possibly also chastened a bit.
Then there was the dental disaster as a specialist dentist recommended $3,000 worth of work on our Little Yang’s teeth under general anaesthetic. Certainly not what we’d been expecting (our dentist has since said the specialist is being overly cautious and the pain in Little Yang’s mouth and our pocket need not be quite so bad). But ouch#!?
And then Ruffus the wrecker chewed up the little star-shaped box that Little Yang made – the one with the paper flowers inside and the inscription to store my worries away there, so I’d never have to worry again. Yeh right. Ruffus also had a go at chewing the soap from the Mother’s Day stall. Serves him right if he starts blowing bubbles. (Did I mention I even stumped up the Mother’s Day stall money). Oh and I may have to wash out my own mouth with soap.
Now I just have the laminated placemat that says Little Yang loves me because I make the best soup (see recipe below).
Oh and the cup that says I’m awesome, marvellous etc because I certainly don’t feel like it – not when parenting feels pear-shaped.
Still I posted (gushed) last week about the Mother’s Day I thought would never happen and I live in hope that she’ll be apples this week (or maybe everything will come up roses)!
Best Mother in the World Broccoli Soup
Two medium-large heads of broccoli chopped
Half a litre vegetable stock, or fill just above broccoli
Salt & pepper to taste
Greek yoghurt – three tablespoons to thicken/creamify
8-10 basil leaves
Good squirt (or two) of garlic aioli
Cook broccoli to soft in vegetable stock
Remove from heat and blend with basil, aioli and season
Pour into saucepan and reheat, stirring in yoghurt
Serve with shaved parmesan and wedge crackers (or garlic croutons)
Accept the applause!
When did parenting last go pear-shaped for you? Can you get your kids to eat Broccoli soup – do you even like it?
PS – I do promise to go back to regular programming of trying to write something that might be useful/inspirational/remotely interesting for you instead of gushing/moaning about parenthood.