In my experience the worst aspect of parenting isnt the interupted sleep, diminished IQ, standing around parks bored senseless nor the drudgery of housework. Its the whinging. The incessant whinging. All day everyday. Having worked in stockbroking I thought I had built up a robust immunity to moaning. “Whaddya mean you dont know whether Big Arsed Company Ltd will up its bid for Cheeky Upstart Company Pty Ltd?!!!! Not having a crystal ball is no excuse”. I’d just mutter “sodd off” and bury myself in my spreadsheets. At least you could escape after hours. We all know that with mothering there is no “after hours”. In Chez ‘Abulous the grizzling lasts from the moment they wake up to the moment they fall asleep at night.
It begins when we flick the TV on first thing in the morning. ” I dont want that, I want a DVD!”. Then after some debate over which DVD, there’s tears when the media centre is slow to boot up. According to Pat Benater “love is a battle field”, in our house breakfast is a battlefield. ” I want porridge!”, demands one. “I want toast with honey and peanut butter” orders the other. Dadabulous pipes in with “Tell them to deal with it. We’re having porridge.” The master of the house has spoken so porridge it is. Of course this brings on a re enactment of Goldie Locks and the Three Bears. “Its too hot!” or “Errk. Its too cold!”. Like a down trodden slave I reheat the hardening mass in the mirco wave. “Now its too hot!”. Lord give me strength!
Getting dressed for the day is even more fraught with my little fashionistas. “I dont like it. I want something else!”. This is repeated five times until we eventually find something acceptable. When I ask my freshly dressed divas to get in the car I usually hear “I’m hungry”, or “I’m thirsty”. More often than not I am barraged with requests for sustenance just after I have strapped them into their car seats. “Ok, have a banana”. Obediently I race back into the kitchen to fetch one. However after one bite I’m thanked with “Ick – I dont like it” as the offending morsel is thrown on the car floor. Geezus! Somebody call DoCS – mother gives child sub-standard fruit.
Most of our car trips are mercifully short but rarely whinge free. They chant “I want my dummy”, “Its too hot I want my window all the way down” or “I want milk” ad nauseam. I dont know how P2 expects me to serve her milk while I’m driving but she is never appeased by “wait 5 minutes until we get home.” Aaaaargh
I’m barraged with innumerable complaints throughout the day. It might be tolerable if there was some variety to their carping instead of “I hungry”, “I’m thirsty”, “I dont like it” over and over and over like a scratched CD. The moan I dread the most is “I want my dummy”. Although we have about 5 they are like policemen. You can never find one when you need one. The dummy whinge has me scampering all over the house trying to pin one down.
Friday night is pizza night. I’m usually let off the hook then unless they want prosciutto instead of bacon, or bocconcini rather than ricotta. On any other night of the week meal times have me diving for cover from a blitzkrieg of bellyaching. P2 has been known to take one look her meal and cry inconsolably. I’m no Nigella but my cooking isn’t that bad. I haven’t poisoned Dadabulous in the 8 years we’ve been together. Last night P1 moaned about being subjected to oven roasted chicken. I thought roast chicken was a no-fail crowd pleaser. The Chez ‘Abulous crowd is seemingly impossible to please.
I’m working on a theory to explain this sainity crushing drone. My princesses are infact the X-men style mutants – The Whingerine sisters. Their power is the ability to grind down the enemy with incessant whinging! They would have Wolverine howling in dispair trying to drown out the cacophony. (The poor guy can’t simply block his ears due to long metal spikes for fingernails – ouch).
Professor X would be forced to shut down his telepathic powers under the weight of constant demands for food, milk , dummies, dvds and puta*.
Hapless Storm would not even be able to work up a stiff breeze against the hot air of my girl’s griping and groaning.
Poor Magneto wouldn’t stand a chance. The girls’ moaning could easily penetrate his dorky anti-mind reading helmet, piercing his brain.
Its comforting to think of my princesses as super heroes rather than spoilt brats moulded by my lax discipline. Needless to say I not looking forward to the future when they transform into teenage mutant whinging turtles.
Do your kids have super powers?
*translation – computer