Utterly Fed Up

What a funny old week I have had.  I am, as the post title confirms, utterly fed up.  My normal optimistic, positive demeanour has vanished somewhere.  Maybe it's with Summer, wherever that went to.

We'll start off with some 'Sh*t My Kids Said' this week.   Including one exchange that knocks last week's 'Meerkat Boner' story off the number one spot.  Straight in at number one, this week, is Adam and the Sausage.  Adam is very nervous around water, and as such, the school have paid to have someone in the pool with him and the other nervous kids.

Adam: You know what I think I need in swimming?  You know that guy that's in with us?  I need him to just hold the end of my sausage...
Me: Whoa!
Caitlin: *dies* 
Ryan: *snort* 
Mr G: Um...
Adam: WHAT?  You know my sausage, well, if he was just to hold it right at the very end... STOP LAUGHING, WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING ABOUT?
Me: What do you mean by 'sausage', sweetheart?
Adam:  You know, the float thing.  The noodle.
Ryan:  What colour sausage have you got?
Adam:  Well, you can have a pink sausage, a red sausage and a blue sausage.  I've got a blue sausage because...
Mr G:— the water is cold?
Me:  Sweetheart, you mustn't let anyone touch your sausage in swimming, ok?
Adam:  STOP IT! 

Poor boy still didn't have a clue what we were talking about.    Then we had this from Ryan...

Ryan:  Are sausage rolls made out of 'pork poison'?

Don't know.  Couldn't tell you.

Mr G, myself and Adam had our eyes tested last night (more on that later...) and because we all needed photographs taken of our eyes, and other tests, I had to accompany him for his eye examination while Mr G was being tested.  Adam is a really good boy (when in public or in company).  His manners are always commented on and complimented.  However, the last few weeks or so, the moment he comes home from school, until he goes to bed, he talks and he talks and he talks.  Without interruption.  Mr G and I wear glazed expressions until he is in bed, just being talked at.  Incessantly.

I cringed for the most of the exam.  Adam didn't shut up.  Helen (the optician) was laughing throughout.  She asked him if he was going to pick new glasses and keep his old pair as a spare, or if he wanted his new lenses in his old frames.

Adam: Can I have a monocle?
Helen:  Errrrr... no.  Oh Adam, I could have done with you the other week, my son had homework where we had to think of words beginning with 'mono' without using a dictionary or computer.  Monocle would have been a good one!
Adam:  There's a dinosaur called a 'monolophosaurus'.  Did you have that?
Helen:  No...
Adam:  And monobrow.  My big brother has one of those.  Like Ed from Ed, Edd and Eddy.  Did you have that?  Monotonous?
Me: *mutters* Monologue?
Adam:  What's a monologue?
Helen:  Kind of what you've done since you walked in here?

A bit later in the examination, Helen shone the light into his eyes.

Adam:  Is this like one of those rooms where you take people prisoner and shine lights in their eyes until they talk?
Me:  And to round off your day, Helen, being compared to the Gestapo.  You're welcome.  Would you like us to find a new Optician for next time?

So, back to the eye test.  As I'm knocking on 40, I had to have a glaucoma test.  I managed to work myself up slightly, Helen remembered that I had actually vomited over my Optician branch (literally, projectile vomited a la Exorcist) when I lived in Manchester, just because I'd had eye drops in my eyes before trying contact lenses.  She showed me the little tool, and practiced on my hand and I relented.  Apparently the reading should be between 12 and 20.  Mine was 23.  Yay.  So I have to have another test done when I pick up my new specs next week.  I tried reading up online about it, but nearly passed out, so...

Parenting Highlight of the Week - Telling my son to 'Calm your tits' a little louder than I meant to, as his Headmaster held the door open for us with a horrified smile frozen on his face.  In front of other parents and children.  To which my son responded 'I haven't got tits'.  #momgoals

My allergy is on top form this week, to the extent that I could smash things, I could scream, I could cry.  And no, I haven't made a GP appointment.  Because I bet a pound to a pinch of shite, she'll ask for blood tests.  Not on my watch.  So, with the help of Mr G, we've started a process of what I like to call 'self-diagnosis' (or Ask Google, as it's otherwise known.  Clinically dead in three clicks) and we're pretty much in agreement that it could well be dust mite allergy.  Apparently it doesn't mean that I'm a rubbish housewife (although...) and it makes sense that the two rooms that I am affected most in are my living room and my bedroom.  Mr G also thinks that our duck feather duvet might not be helping and also the plug in/auto spray air fresheners could be triggering it off.  So, it's looking like a load of hoovering, wet dusting, washing bedding at 60 degrees, washing upholstery, new duvets, pillows and protectors, and a smelly house is the way forward from here on in.  Process of elimination before I have to relent, reach for the EMLA cream, and have my first blood test since my last pregnancy. 

It's the Fair tomorrow, and as much as I might sound a killjoy, I bloody hate it with a passion.  Loved it as a teen, but as an adult, if it never came back here again, it wouldn't bother me.  It's a Saturday, which means that there's going to be an increased amount of what I like to call 'idiots' around in the day, drinking.  I've warned the children that we're going down early and I want to be back in the house for 3pm, in time for Soccer Saturday, my accumulator bet, with sweets and chocolate.

Oh yes, and to round off my week, I am definitely allergic to wine.  So allergic that I gave half a box of wine away to my son (who would drink his own pee at the moment if it had a % ABV) without hesitating.  I am devastated.  Let's hope next week fares a bit better.