The woman is always right...

...even if she's wrong, she's right. Always. So far my Beloved has only learned the basics of his training and has learned to say, "Yes Dear" whenever he seems uncertain of what should be said. It's a start but there's still a way to go. Sunday is church day. Beloved hasn't yet cottoned on to the idea that Sunday is not sleep in day. Sunday is the day that we have to be out of the front door in order to be somewhere at a certain time. He works hard during the week so I suppose a lie in wouldn't do him too much harm once in a while. What isn't good for his health however, is when he slips out the door, backs out the car and toots impatiently after I've been organizing kids and had to chase him out of the shower (I think he rather enjoyed that). Today I warned him in no uncertain terms that this would NOT be happening.

It happened.

So today was as good a time as any to teach this man a lesson in husbandly etiquette. As I made my way to the car I *politely* expressed my annoyance. The correct response should have been "Sorry Dear. You're right. It was very rude of me. I shan't let it happen again".

I NEED to get one of these for Beloved!

He laughed. That was his mistake.

"I am NOT getting in this car with YOU. I would rather WALK!" There. That should show him I mean business. NOW he would tell me he was sorry and start grovelling for me to get in the car so we could get to church on time.

He laughed again. Oh crap. Now I have to start walking.
Husbands are very much like children. One must carry through with a threat for them to be properly trained. So I started walking.

 Any minuted now he's going to pull up beside me and BEG me to get in the car.
Sure enough, Beloved stopped the car..."Get in!"
 What? That's not begging. That's a command!  So I thrust my double A chest out, threw my nose in the air and waved him on. HE DROVE OFF!!!

So Plan A had fallen to pieces. Fortunately, since Church is a 4.5km walk uphill, I had a Plan B. My friend R lives just around the corner and she's always late for church...except for today.

Plan C: Start walking. This is when I became immensely grateful that I was wearing my Chuck Taylors - only the coolest shoes ever.

Plan C had a hitch. The main route and the church are separated by a motorway. There is a bridge crossing the motorway...and I am scared of heights.

 I spent a good 40 minutes psyching myself up but when I saw it my fears took over. To be fair, this was NOT part of Plan A or Plan B. I crossed the road. I crossed the road again. I started to cry. I texted R to subtly let her know where I was. Knowing my phobia, she kindly offered to come and get me. Of course I assumed (wrongly) she'd read between the lines when I replied "No".

So I was stuck at the bridge, too scared to cross. I contemplated turning back and actually said out loud: "Well, I guess only God can rescue me now". And then...God reminded me that He likes me. I have lived in Rewa for 25 years and never knew that there was a walkway under the bridge (probably because it was only built two years ago). I don't have an actual photo of this walkway, but to me it looked something like this:

I'm pretty sure I heard the Hallelujah Chorus as I made my way along the golden path in the complete opposite direction to church (hey, it got me on the other side of that Bridge of Horror and I was able to get back onto the right street eventually).

I got to church. I was a little (a LOT) late. I was tired. My feet hurt. But I still had the last word when I saw Beloved, "Well? Have you learned your lesson?"

He laughed. I didn't.

What would Jo Frost say?

There was a massive tantrum on the way to school yesterday morning. I'm tempted play the martyr and describe how much I suffered with my six-year-old's transformation from cherub to fiend, but the truth is that I deserved it. My son M and the fostie didn't, but I did. Technically, I guess you could say that I'm the person responsible for instigating the riot, but I blame Roald Dahl. After all, it was him who wrote "The Twits".

The previous evening, in true supermum fashion, I was reading to C at bedtime. We've graduated to chapter books now - one chapter a night is just right. Of course C has been skipping ahead to see what happens next but like most kids, she loves having it read out loud. Being a somewhat eccentric person (that's what the title of my blog says), I've thrown myself into the characters: voices, expressions, even the bad smells when I can manage it. Evidently I must be quite clever at it because the other night, she wouldn't let me stop. My voice was tiring of Mr Twit's nastiness and I was itching for the "fart in the bucket". As I tried to leave, C reminded me that she still hadn't read her school journal to me. What kind of mother would I be if I didn't let her do her homework? Thankfully Zeeb arrived and I sensed my escape: "Read to Zeeb!" C wanted Mummy.

I tried to be polite but C is in Group 17 for Reading now and this story was long. Noticing a brown felt tip pen, I devised a cunning scheme. As C was focussed on her book, I drew a beard and moustache on myself. When C saw it, I was able to excuse myself to run to the bathroom and "shave" - leaving Zeeb in charge. Clever, huh? It only took a second to wash it off straight away.

Dramatisation: This is not the actual fake facial hair on my actual face.

The next morning, I was getting C ready for school when I realised what a fantastic role model I really am. She had found the felt tip and grown her own whiskers before going to sleep.

It didn't wash off.

I tried covering it with makeup. It didn't work.

I tried cleansing creme. It didn't work.

Soap...didn't work.

It was time to go to school. C didn't want to leave the house with a moustache and fluff beard. It got pretty serious so in one of his helpful moments, M carried her kicking and screaming to the van.

I lost the keys to the van.

C ran upstairs to the bathroom while I found the keys. M had to carry her downstairs again.

It was a painful journey to school. My ears still echo with the screams.