Why my kids are good for me.

I had a tantrum last week. One that a three-year-old would have been proud of. In front of the children. However much I plead temporary hormonal insanity (otherwise known as PMT), my little internal Jiminy Cricket was telling me: you could control this if you wanted to... But I was cross and bothered and I chose to let it out.

Here's why it happened:

• I go out to tap 3 nights a week. (Stress Factor #1 - means dinner must be cooked, served and eaten before 6.30 so that I can leave the house by then)
• I've been trying to cook nicer dinners for Fixit and myself. (Stress Factor #2 because I am competent but not gifted in the cooking department)
• I have to cook different stuff for the kids. (Stress Factor #3 - additional meals to be dished up at the same time)
• I am doing all of this at the last minute so to speak because that is the sort of person I am and I don't think after spending my entire adult life being this sort of person that I am ever going to change.
• Fixit had been inexplicably and relentlessly late for the previous month. He knocks off at 5pm and it does not take more than half an hour of actual travel time from work to home; there is very little chance of overtime, the workshop just shuts, as in game over, he's not a corporate or salary slave, he knocks off at 5pm so why is he not getting home until 6.30???? *ahem*.
• Climber decided to dress up as Spiderman. Which meant Cherub had to dress up as Buzz Lightyear. The Buzz Lightyear costume could not be located which resulted in small whinging hungry child pulling at my clothes as I was frantically trying to dish up the meals at the right time without spoiling the nicer more complicated meal I had lovingly prepared for Fixit who was LATE. AGAIN.
• I had PMT.

So my tantrum involved stomping (naturally), some swearing (although obviously not as much as I would have liked due to small people being in the same room) and ranting at the absent Fixit along the lines of "Just once I would like some HELP would that be TOO MUCH to ask, knocks off at 5pm, try to fix a nice dinner, why am I the only person who can find anything in this house..."

Well, you get the idea.

By the time Fixit got home, I was done. I couldn't be bothered working up another head of steam and besides which I had to finish stuffing my face before running out the door to go to tap, after which I had to set up the hall in a complete flurry and then try to become calm-lovely-prepared-tap-teacher.

But back to why my kids are good for me. Clearly my foot-stamping and raised voice had worried the poor Climber. Cherub, he's three. He couldn't care less. But even before I left the house Climber was making gentle offers to help me. And when I got home that night I found this had been left for me on the kitchen table.


With instructions to turn it over. Which revealed this:

In my absence, he'd requested a photo of me to put by his bed because he missed me:

(You have to picture the sleeping boy in there, I took the photo the next morning.) And just in case you're interested this is the actual photo which shows Climber and me when he was just 2 and Cherub was about the size of a peanut & making me feel nauseous.


I may think twice before I throw my next wobbly. Or before I throw it in front of the kids anyway.