Anyone who reads my blog with anything in the ballpark of ‘regularilty’ will know that I like a good moan. We all do. But I like a proper moan. It’s the British in me. Yeah, I’ve also got that stiff upper lip / grin and bear it / blitz spirit mentality bollocks supposedly built in but I have never encountered a group of people with a capacity for moanage as the Brits. Okay, that’s a lie: I have.
More specifically mine. My kids whinge, moan, bitch and complain about everything. I know nothing is perfect but you’d think they could just let a couple of things slide – just to keep the bloody peace, just to keep me on the right side of sanity. I suspect that the only reason they bothered to learn how to talk was so that they could have a go at me. They’re like a couple of washer-women.
I did say that they complained about everything – and this is true – but here are a couple of specifics:
- TV Not so much darling daughter as darling son. He sits there, normally gently massaging his manhood, flicking his hand and muttering ‘seen it’ as I put on Scooby Doo after Scooby Doo. We have one of those IKEA dvd pouches (sleeves?) full of DVDs. We also have a hard disk recorder stacked full of Scooby Doo and Ben 10. He must have a thousand hours of viewing pleasure. When I was a lad we could watch half a scooby boo because it clashed with Countdown and my Mum loved countdown. We would see about one film a year. At Christmas. So my DS moans about how bored he is with all the films we have. One day I will flick them out the window, like frisbies, screaming: ‘Yeah, bored of that one too eh? This one? This one too? Eh? Eh?!’ I won’t, obviously. But I could.
- Food Too hot. Too cold. Too much. Too little. Not the right plate. Not the right fork. Too much water. Too little. Too much ketchup. Wrong shape of pasta. Wrong chair. Wrong place. Wrong food. Its enough to drive me utterly round the bend. It’s like a constant exam, like being on parade at the army, where every small insignificant detail has some importance or meaning that changes every day. At breakfast Darling Daughter loves a bowl a cereal, she’s not picky which (though the quality of cereal in Swizzerland is shocking. They’re all sweet or chocolately and I love a sweet cereal, me; but she had a honey one the other day that was like eating sweetened loft insulation) but she will only eat it if I fill the bowl up completely. But she never eats more than a third. FFS. I have tried pouring a third of a bowl but then she goes into full-on whinge mode. It’s sugar disguised as cereal! Stop bloody whinging!
- Walking If I walk to the playground then my kids don’t just walk. They run. If I throw in the utopian lure of an ice-cream they’ll discard all considerations of road safety and hurtle themselves towards the playground – as the crow flies – using any means of transportation available without any concern for their mortality or anyone else’s. But, the other way around? Forgeddaboudit. It’s too far. My legs hurt. I’m tired. My tummy hurts. It’s boring. ‘Listen, my diminuative spawn, I have just taken you to a playground, bought you a milk-based, frozen lump of sugar in a biscuit – the least you can do is walk the ten minutes home without likening the stroll home to a trek through the Andes. FFS.’
- Clothes As far as I can fathom, their clothes have not got holes in them, they are reasonably well made, they keep out the cold and I try and select outfits for them so that they don’t look like chavs / pikeys / lunatics / juvenile offenders. I try to listen to them if they express a taste for a particular style of garment (DS: scary t-shirts with skulls and/or snakes; crocs…everything else is optional or irrelevant. DD: pink.) but normally they like to have a good old whinge about whatever clothes they have been provided with. DS has a favourite t-shirt and he would quite happily wear that everyday until the fabric would be so crusty with his sweat and odour that it could probably attend school for him like an avatar. DD just bloody loses it if she is not completely adorned in pink like some kind of Barbie messiah.
- Bedtime They’re tired, they need to go to the loo and they need to have their teeth brushed or they will fall out and they’ll look ugly. These three actions have to be forced upon them like martial law. I don’t want to go to the toilet. Well, if you don’t you wet the bed. I don’t want to brush my teeth. If you don’t your teeth will rot and then fall out. I want a biscuit. Then you’ll have to brush your teeth again. I want water. Then you’ll have to go to the toilet again or you’ll wet the bed. I don’t want to go to bed. If you don’t you’ll be too grumpy and tired to do anything tomorrow. No I won’t. Yes, you will, because that is what has happened today because you stayed up too late asking for biscuits and water. If you spent more time peeing, brushing and sleeping as you did moaning about it then you’d be happy as flies in a shit factory, wouldn’tcha? You dozey git. (I obviously didn’t say that last bit…but only just.)