The Favourite Parent

In my next life I’m coming back as The Favourite Parent.  In our house my Husband is The Favourite Parent.

I can repeatedly scream like a banshee beg plead talk in a stern voice and will be ignored like any stop street in our suburb (a story for another day), but let Dad step in and talk in his I’m-not-taking-any-shit-voice and the children will hop.  The man can make them pack away toys and brush their teeth like real little troopers. But let me ask them and there’s mutiny.  (Never!  I’m NEVER brushing my teeth!)

Take this afternoon for an example.  I decided it was a great time to bake some cookies for the week for school snacks, so the kids each got their dough and we were doing the shapes.  And they were all singing twinkle twinkle little star like good little Von Trapps.  Etienne helped as usual, but then wanted to go off and water the garden.  And what do my ungrateful children do?  They run after their Dad.  All 3 of them.  And leave me eating cookie dough.

They left me feeling like The Least Favourite Parent.  Which is completely ridiculous, but hey.  I know I shouldn’t complain.  And this isn’t really complaining.  I always admire the easy way he has with them, they really worship him.

And then I was tidying up the kitchen whilst Dad was bathing the children and I hear Isabel asking for Mom to wash her hair, not Dad.  Well, let me tell you, I skipped down the passage so fast I almost forgot about the damn cookies in the oven.

A little win!  At last!

A great week to all of you, hope you also have some moments of being The Favourite Something.

ps Just so you know, the party theme for the day is Lion King 3.

Why men should not accept party invitations

We have aquaintances that recently moved back to Cape Town.  Etienne got a call last week inviting us to their house-warming party.

Generally I’m always keen for a party, but I got my much anticipated and long awaited iphone late on Friday and we had people over for supper on Friday night, a little trip to the emergency room that night* and a hetic day on Saturday, so needless to say all I wanted to do was stay home and play with my toy (the phone people, minds out the gutter please!)

But alas, the Inlaws were coming to babysit and off we went, me with visions of leaving sneaking out after an hour.  As we drive up to the house (very late) we see only 2 other cars and it dawns on me: this is not a party, it’s an intimate dinner party.  Gulp.  And glare at Husband.

Lovely, lovely people and beautiful house.  They don’t have kids or animals yet and it was quite refreshing to:

  • be able to sit down for longer than 30 seconds
  • without a child on my lap/hanging on my clothes/chewing on the hem of my shirt
  • be able to walk barefoot without stepping on some sharp object or getting stuck to the floor because SOMEONE messed SOMETHING and didn’t TELL anyone.
  • stop and admire their beautiful picture frames, strategically placed at about mid-thigh
  • sit on their couch on a pre-fluffed pillow that isn’t covered in juice/yoghurt/unidentified fruit
  • admire the sheer beauty of unmarked walls/floors/furniture

I felt like cackling like a madwoman when I heard half-way through the evening that ‘they’ are preganant, but I kept it in until we got to the car.  Just.

Luckily the company was great and we all laughed until we cried and our faces and stomachs hurt!

*Isabel was chasing Etienne in the kitchen and ran head-first into the edge of the kitchen cupboard.  I must confess I kind of freaked out at the sight of the blood, but my friend Carmen and I took her to the hospital and they glued her back together.  She was a real trooper, didn’t cry once!

The kids looked like they had been through the wars, because Mignon decided to take a black bike onto the trampoline and promptly did a nose-dive, bike and all.  People are going to start to wonder…

This is the damage: