More parental torture

My youngest child wants to bring her four best friends home for a sleepover. Why not invite the whole class? And hold it in a park. In winter. SLEEP over? Why does this pastime designed for maximum parental torment have that name? There is no sleeping involved. While her little mates stay up all night screaming and discussing the ramifications of the situation in Gaza, Mummy is visited by the Snark Fairy. Couple that with PMT (no, I’m joking PMT doesn’t exist) and you have a very chirpy, pre cocktail hour solo mummy. No, my little lovelies, I gave up sleep deprivation at the same time my babies gave up nappies. It is time to tell my children that our house has become a meditation retreat, on the weekends we will undertake a vow of silence. Nighty night kids, Mummy says sssshhhhhh.


Parental torture

My beautiful children have now gone back to their day release penitentiary after the longest summer break in recorded history and our school music teacher is helping me stay sane with gifts that keep on giving. She suggested that on my limited single mother budget I could buy my youngest child a parental torture device AKA a recorder. Why? Will it help her learn to be musical? No. Will it promote family harmony? A trillion times no. A moody teenager and an eight year old practising recorder in the next room are not a happy mix. I can already hear the howls of protest. I looked on youtube and there are young whipper snappers playing recorder while Celine Dion sings. Double torture. Please make them stop. Apparently there are different kinds of recorder, soprano, vibrato, psycho, they all sound like hell to me. Mummy says no.