Gnomes and Nits, a mother’s tale

I just made myself a tea and a glass of water. Sharp kitty broke my ashtray, spilled my tea and drank my water. This is my life. I am a vessel for the taking y’all. Drink of my life juices all of creation! (great, now Cat is puking up my water and most probably a mouse for me to clean up later. huzza!)

So we have gnomes now. Garden gnomes. I am not sure how this happened. I was pretty sure that I was going to make it through life without gnomes of any kind.

Nope.

Let’s just be clear here. I hate garden gnomes with a firey passion of the christ. Unfortunately, The White Rose does not. She found some gnomes in a , tip, bin.. uh..skip? dumpster near our house. Some poor old bird died and they threw all of her ten thousand gnomes into the trash. This made both of my children sad. They needed the gnomes. They wanted to love them and give them new homes. God only knows what my British neighbours thought we were doing going through trash and gnoming it up.

One of the gnomes is a girl gnome. She has a lantern and a beard. (Don’t judge). I now have a girl-beared-gnome that has to come in at night because The White Rose thinks that “her dreams will get wet” if we leave her outside. Copernicus the homicidal monkey is less scary than this gnome-thing. I have to pretend to love it and give it naps and who knows what else the kid will make me do to it before I come unglued.

I can’t type ‘gnome’ anymore. I feel ill.

Let’s talk nits then shall we? Honestly, I am more grossed out by the …lawn ornaments… than I am by nits these days. I hear through the grapevine that kids in the U.S. do not get head-lice anymore. I believe this. I only knew one kid that had them in all my years of (primary/elementary) school. Here? England 2012? Everyone has them. All of the kids. All of the time. I swear that I am not making this up.

I have done everything but shave them bald, but they just keep coming back. I have become like a monkey-mum. I am constantly grooming them and picking at their hair. Oh sure, we do the chemi’s and the combs, but it makes no noticeable difference. I can kill them in my family, but then some nasty kid hugs my kids and REPEAT AND RINSE. Forever. It is like one of the seven circles of hell. And OMG, my kids have bugs. I cannot stress how awful this is.

But the Brit-mums? they are so calm about it. “yes, my daughter had them until she was 14. they grow out of it.” “oh, i know, you just have to keep at it until they are in highschool” “nevermind, just use the comb on them every day!”

YUCK

Since i am not allowed to spray them with kerosene or DDT, I guess this is my life now. Nits and Gnomes.

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My children have many wonderful qualities. The ability to eat ice cream in the sun, pick me flowers, draw me pictures. They can hang upside down on the monkey bars, make up jokes, and swear like motherfucking champions. (hey, it’s a life skill! How many interesting people do you know that never swear? Thought so.)

One of their most outstanding qualities that they possess is the ability to turn into psychic vampires that feed off of my very life force.

Given the fact that neither one has been nursing for over 4 years, this seems impossile. I assure you that it is not.

Everyone, especially children, needs to be touched. My children and I have always had a very close physical bond. I love squeezing them, kissing their eyelashes, stroking their hair. (remember when I had my first baby and I wore her in a sling and Attachment Parented her like an obsessed tree-hugging idiot new inexperienced mum? yeah. i’m over that.)

But as the Giver of The Loves, I sometimes have an uncontrollable desire to NOT be touched. Just for like 15 minutes. I have 2 children, 3 cats and a manboy to fawn over. I touch a lot of mammalian life-forms in any given day.

In a fruitless attempt to guard my sanity and my personal space, I sit in an armchair in the evenings. By 7pm, I am ready to have a bit of breathing room. It’s almost bedtime, but not yet time to drink all of the wine take off my mummy hat. Little Stormbringer can not abide this. No, she can not be having with it at all. So she sits with me in the chair. I say ‘with’ but it’s more like ‘ON’. She perches her bony behind on my right hip. She then cuddles me and comments on every web page that I visit.

This is great for a few minutes. Then it becomes painful. Her butt-bones have now embedded themselves into my flesh. The muscles on the right side of my body are groaning in agony. Half of my leg is asleep and the rest is on fire. She is leaning her head on my shoulder and her ear is now sweat-stuck to my skin. She needs to possess my soul, squeeze out it’s meaty juices and devour them with her never-satiated heart-hole. It’s excruciating.

I do love our little moments together, but I think maybe squeezing into the same chair every evening is crossing the line a bit. Do I feel bad when I make her get off? I do, I really do. Hell, half of the time I invite her back. I am an idiot.