No bloggy break, just sheer laziness. Remember in Sense & Sensibility when Mrs Dashwood admonishes Margaret to restrict her remarks to the weather if she hasn’t anything constructive to say?
Well. We’ve had lovely blue skies and mild weather but rain is on the horizon for the weekend…
Snore.
In reality though, there hasn’t been all that much to say, LOL. Miss Moo’s class is doing their school-run swimming lessons this week, which means packing a swimming bag each night (major drag). The poor teacher, not the cuddliest personality we’ve ever come across, is, uh - a little brisk with the kids at the best of times so the stress of making it to the charter bus parked out the front of the school by 9am each morning is just about all she can bear. Unusually, we switch teachers at the end of this term. Hopefully to someone who reminds me of cookies and warm milk rather than Miss Trunchbull.
Boofah, in Year 3, is sitting his standardised testing this week (Aussies: the LAN test). All kids, at least those in my state, go through an across-the-board testing procedure in Years 3, 5 and 7 but this is the first time we’ve come up against it because Master J, currently in Year 4, is exempt due to his disability. It’s a hefty chunk of brain power for my little 7yo to handle - they stretch the test over three days but today’s portion alone totaled 2 x 40 minutes. Sometimes I have to remind myself that hang on, Boof should really only be in Year 2 at this point so the fact that he’s not only keeping up but coming near the top of the class is really rather awesome. Go Boof!
J, in true form, refused to give me any information about his class field trip on Monday. They went to a safari-style zoological park - we’ve been before as a family and it was cool - but he was so wiped out that night it wasn’t until this morning that he was even up to telling me what animals he saw. I got ‘giraffe tried to lick our bus’ out of him and that was it. The whole story will gradually leak out over the next couple of weeks, LOL. Sustained-release parenting. Gotta love that :P
My wonderful, hard-working husband had been both wonderful AND hard-working this week. But I have to confess to something. I might have committed just about the worst mistake a wife can make this week and I’m still smarting from it. Okay, here’s the deal: Talented Hubby has short hair (buzz cut, more or less)and usually whips the clippers out and trims it himself when he needs a haircut. After getting most of it done himself yesterday afternoon, he called me into the bathroom to go over the back, just to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots. Wait, it gets good. The little plastic guard, the thing that gives a barrier of pre-determined length between one’s scalp and the whizzing cutting blade, FELL OFF MID-PASS.
Oh yes, it sure did.
I let out a shriek and automatically dropped the clippers which, by a much-welcomed twist of good luck, managed NOT to shave one of Talented Hubby’s legs in the process. His head, I’m sorry to say, was not that lucky. He is now sporting a delightful bald patch on the back of his noggin’, roughly the size of 10c piece. And remember, this is a buzz cut. There ain’t no options for comb-overs!
Folks, I ran. I was so overwhelmed by guilt and horrible wife-ishness that the second he was in the shower I skedaddled out the door under the guise of needing to pick up milk at the store, and didn’t return until after I knew he’d left for work. I fretted the entire night because without the addition of manly stitches to the equation, the blindingly-white baldy scalp patch really wouldn’t have done much for Talented Hubby’s status at work. He works in the public eye. He does not wear a hat.
I am a horrible, horrible wife.
Now I’m sure he could have come up with some awesome stories to explain it away - red hot poker singed the hair away (never mind the absence of any scalp burns, or the freakish symmetry with no surrounding cut hairs, kind of like a crop-circle), bar fight (with new miracle ‘one day stitches’ perhaps?), acid rain…something, anything other than Doofus Wife Syndrome. But I strongly suspect he threw me in front of the train regardless, probably deservedly so. Sometimes I socialise with his workmates. This will be regurgitated for many years to come, I can just feel it, LOL.
Oh, it’s not so bad for me. I can handle the ribbing. It’s my poor husband who has to endure the funny looks! The only redeeming thing about this whole situation is that being a buzz cut (no. 4 all over) it will only be a few weeks before the ol’ turf springs back to life. At the moment though, when I look at the back of his head I’m reminded of our old family dog, Tess. The poor old girl started to go blind in her advancing years due to weeping, pus-filled cataracts or some such thing and every time I looked at her eyes my stomach would turn. That’s the feeling I get when I see my husband’s head.
I’m sorry Hubs! Honest!
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