Tag Archives: ranting

Hanging in there

12 Oct

I am. More or less.

Usually I would characterise myself as rather easygoing. A “go with the flow” type. At the moment though I’m not sure that I am. Everything grates. Every little thing. It’s because I have to let the big things “go”. And I can’t. So the little things are driving me a little bit insane.

I do have larger things to be thinking about. People at home sick and dying. Still though.

Here are the things I want to say, but can’t (and I realise some of them are petty but I can’t help it).

  • Don’t tell my son he can’t do something when I am standing right there. If he’s not allowed to do something I will tell him. If I haven’t said anything it is because he is allowed do it.
  • Don’t try and feed him your crappy cereal while I am in the kitchen cooking him breakfast (and you have seen me).
  • Don’t coerce him to eat. Or try and put things in his mouth. He’s 2! Conversely, don’t berate him for not using cutlery when he is actually eating.
  • Don’t wipe his face while he is eating.
  • How hard is it to understand that you can shower before he goes to bed or a half an hour or so after he goes to sleep? Not while I am putting him to bed. So there’s an hour a day when I would prefer that you did not shower. One hour. Out of twenty four. Why is that exactly the time you go into the bathroom? You may as well be doing the Macarena around his bedroom. He’s 2. He needs his sleep. And yes, his sleep is more important than your ablutions.
  • Do not rearrange the doodads on my mantelpiece. Maybe their arrangement offends you, but that is how I like them. I will put them back one more time, but if they are moved again I will put them in a box in the garage.

There’s more, but just thinking about it is apt to make my head explode. Hopefully getting this much out makes it less likely that you will see my face on the news with a big “Wanted” sign under it 😉


19 Nov

I’m a bit mad today. Still. Remnants of yesterday. Want to hear why?

Well, yesterday we went to the Diaper Club. It’s run by the base, so all military parents and children. There was some kind of party, not sure because I don’t get the e-mails, even though I tried to join the stupid yahoo group three times!! That’s a different story though. Anyway, the little turtle was running around, having a whale of a time. I was playing blocks with other people’s children. And I hear “Hey! Hey! Hey! Get away! Get!” (think of how you would shout at a dog, if it were trying to take food off of a small child). The little turtle was going up to a small boy, about his age who had a cookie. He wasn’t doing anything to him. Just looking. Interested in seeing what he was eating, or whatever (did I say I have the nosiest child I’ve ever seen?) And he gets shooed away like a dog. I was soo mad. Mad enough not to be able to react. As well as that, the guy was in uniform and I have yet to overcome my awe fear respect regard for people in uniform (like I used to be with doctors and teachers, before I realised they were just people too and just as fallible as the rest of us). So I have spent the last 24 hours (on-and-off, you understand) formulating a response in my head! It goes like this

“Excuse me, was that my son you were talking to? …Well I would appreciate it if you didn’t speak to him like that again. He’s a small human being, not a dog, and should be treated as such. What you do with your own son is your own business, but I won’t have mine talked to like that, by anyone.”

Then maybe stomp away, indignantly. Without falling over or tripping.  I think if we had been anywhere else, and he hadn’t been in uniform I would have said it. Or something along those lines, any variations being the result of not having 24 hours to mull it over. See, the main problem is that I don’t know what’s appropriate when it comes to things associated with the hubby’s work. My military wife handbook has yet to arrive! And if it ever does, I am quite likely to ignore it. I told the hubby about this incident and he got quite mad, trying to identify the guy by asking me loads of questions. Man in uniform is what he got out of me. My powers of observation are not the best. I have yet to get used to looking at people’s chests to see what their names are. I look at their shoulders for their rank, without knowing what they mean (maybe that’s in the handbook?). I don’t want the hubby to do anything though. Like get the guy in trouble. I need to grow a  backbone and deal with these things myself, which he says I can do, but no shouting! I told him I don’t shout at strangers, only him, you see the regard for men in uniform doesn’t seem to extend to him, how would it, when I’m the one washing his uniforms and tripping over his boots? But I also have to be careful about who I give a piece of my mind to. You never know who you’re talking to. Eggshells and whatnot. Oh well, I suppose I’ll get used to all of this seething. Or my head will explode.One or the other.

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