The Ugly Truth

Gone is that wonderful “stress free” feeling I attained at Daylesford.  The floatation bed; the massage and exfoliation followed by a mud cocoon.   We had dinners out that centred around talks of the magnitude that can only occur between two old friends that have known one another forever.

I came back to the reality of Melbourne yesterday and started cleaning.

The Squeeze had obviously hit the “no nagging zone” and had quite literally, skidded across the floor in his undies while I was away.  Anything used, was left out.  The bed was haphazard, but at least made.  I sighed as I unpacked my bag and began cleaning.

My real joy came at about 5pm when he mentioned that Boy 1 would be dropping Boy 3 off for a weekend of Squeezette Hell; I really tried not to let the dismay show on my face, but according to the Girl, I don’t think I achieved ‘calm face…’

So the weekend of King Kid begins.  Yay.

First, he arrived over an hour late which I’d anticipated so although I had saved food, I hadn’t bothered to hold dinner until his arrival.  Having two to feed I hadn’t counted on so the Squeeze had to rush out to get them take away.  I can suck that up every so often but there was a small shiver of fear that sidled up my spine – did them moving closer mean Kid 1 was going to take the opportunity to land on us to get away from the Harridan..?  And how often is that going to happen?  I didn’t blame him for wanting to escape the spider that she is, but hey, he chose to move in with mummy so I sure as hell don’t intend to suffer the consequences of his action…

Then Kid 1 and ‘The Little King’ arrive with enough bags to make my fear level spiral and my heart leap into action.  Ummm what is this about?  What the hell are all those bags for..?  It took all of my will not to scream it out loud.

Strangely enough, probably in anticipation to my freak out, the Squeeze makes comment on the numerous bags; almost like a camel train as it headed in through the door and out to the dining room.  Little King tosses the off handed remark that they are school bags and I have a glimmer of hope that he has homework to do.

Three seconds in the house and immediately on the computer, I hear the hacking, chesty, mucus filled lungs wheezing in and out of his chest cavity and with a brief interrogation, discover that he has been home sick that day.

Thanks you miserable bitch.  Ummm yeah, don’t worry about sending a virus infected kid to my home so that I and my children get sick.  I mention to the Squeeze that if I get sick this week – on my week off – I will skin him alive.

Then interrupting our sleep in, the Harridan texts to ask how the flu is and if Little King told us he was going to school Monday from our house.

WTF?  She really is an ignorant bitch; totally bereft of manners or consideration for another person.  I guess she forgot that this is my place; I live here and we make plans as opposed to sit here, baited breath, awaiting Harridan orders.

It didn’t matter what we were doing Sunday night, I was not having the Little King.  The Harridan can learn manners or it is her problem to deal with.

Of course since we don’t know where he lives, I wonder what the Squeeze will do if she just decides to say “too bad, you are having him”…

Then we went to breakfast.  It is always an effort to get the kid out of the door; so I switched off the television after the fifteenth time the Squeeze asked him to shower.  Personally, I think the ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ adage has an element of truth; and this kid could certainly have benefited from it.

It is time to admit the ugly truth.  The kid doesn’t like me; not one little bit.  And I'm not fond of him either.  How do we get around this?  How do I live in my house and shut my face while this kid is rude to me?  How do I make the Squeeze see that if he can't fix it, we have a serious relationship problem our hands because I can't hack this every second weekend for years on end.  I don't want to.

We go to a very nice Greek restaurant that I have decided I won’t be frequenting again with the kid in tow; where he proceeded to eat sourdough smothered in avocado, tomato and balsamic with bacon on the side – with his hands; complete with dirt encrusted fingernails.  The Squeeze, perhaps noting my shiver of revulsion, did ask him to use his cutlery, but this went unheeded.

Bacon, eggs, sauce, avocado - all with fingers!

At the conclusion of breakfast, I suggested that maybe washing his hands would be a good idea which received a look and then a blatant ignore.  My temper seethed higher.

Then we went next door to the chemist to get some chesty cough medicine, which is kind of like treating cancer with mint leaves if you ask me.  Even the chemist notes that it is on the verge of a full blown chest infection.  In the car, on the way home, while my nails are digging into my hands and my teeth are on my lip; the kid mentions around another bout of phlegm filled coughing:  ‘the best thing for a chest infection is time!”

Amazing.  She must be a ventriloquist.  And an excellent one!  She slipped her hand up his arse and moved his mouth and I didn’t even see her lips move!