It would appear I shot my blogging load too soon last night when I wrote about the Tyrannical Threes (Copyright pending) and how the Bean has gone supersonic turbo on our arses. It all became rather apparent once I was sat in the vets this morning, trying to hold back tears whilst getting an almighty ear-bashing from a busy-body granny sat opposite me for 45 motherfucking minutes.
There I was last night, happily typing away, feeling better with each word I wrote, drinking tea, the cat sat next to me.
Hmmm, she seems a bit off, I thought.
She wasn’t scaling the curtains or trying to jump on my face for one thing. Didn’t think much of it. Went to bed, forgot about it.
This morning, Bean wakes me up, he varied up his wake up call for me slightly which is always nice, rather than dive-bombing my head he thought it’d be a change to pile all my pillows and cushions (I do like a cushion) on my face, then lie on top of the squishy mountain.
“Mate, can you get off, please?” I managed to muffle through a mouthful a goose down and ditsy-printed pillow case.
“WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU MUMMY.” he squawks.
“I can’t breathe, darling. Can you please get off?”
So on and so forth.
At least there were no false pretences today was going to be good, at least I knew from the second I opened my bleary eyes that today was going to be a total cluster fuck.
Up we get, I make breakfast, the cat’s still acting strange. I watch her as I’m just about to take my first sip of tea, wondering what’s the matter and what to do, when Bean out of nowhere announces, “Mummy, I sat on Evie yesterday.”
Ah. That’d be it then, wouldn’t it?
According to Bean, when I’d nipped up to the loo yesterday evening, he put her in one of his toy baskets, and then sat on top of her. On purpose.
And it would appear, the cat was completely not ready for his jelly.
I couldn’t speak to him, I didn’t know what to say to him, I was too angry and scared and worried and sick to my stomach with guilt.
Cue a mad hour of phone calls, a quick rummage in the shed for the cat basket and there I was sat in the vet’s waiting room, wondering what the fuck I have done to cause my son to behave like this. Have I made a pint-sized psychopath? Have I not told him a gazillion times before, WE. DO. NOT. HURT. THE. CAT. FULL. STOP. EVER. PERIOD. END. OF.
What had he done to her? Would I be taking her home? What would I tell him, when I didn’t bring her home? Once again, like most things, I didn’t catch the correct protocol for when your three year old murders the fucking cat in the parenting manual. What the hell am I doing wrong?
The questions were zipping around my head like flies, the cat looked annoyed in the basket, and seemed to be saying with her forlorn green eyes “You’re shit!” to me.
Of course, there’s a sodding old granny in front of me, that thinks that the girl sat opposite her, with the haunted look on her face, yesterday’s crumpled clothes on and the day before yesterday’s mascara flaking around her eyes is right up for a nice jolly chat. I one-word answer her pointless, nosy questions, hoping she’ll disappear, but obviously she’s a stubborn old bint and isn’t having that. I up my game, nod and “Mm hmm” my replies, pointedly stare out the window before playing on my phone. Rude? Abso-fucking-lutely. To be fair lady, I couldn’t give a tiny gerbil’s arse that your cat has been acting “All peculiar,” since that squirrel set up home in your hazel tree. You’re at a vet’s surgery,wait to tell the fucking vet, I’m sure he’ll be truly riveted that your here to pay ginormasized vet bills to basically waste his time.
I see the vet. I tell him what has happened, I envisage him shaking his head in complete disappointment before pressing a big red button under the examination table, BAD PET OWNER ALERT *siren* BAD PET OWNER ALERT. He’ll whisk poor Evie away, and I’ll be on TV for being a terrible mother and cat owner. I’ll be in The Sun. I’ll be like that crazy old woman who chucked the cat in the bin on CCTV. I’m done for.
Thankfully, he thinks my story is funny, he laughs. Fucking LAUGHS. The monster. He checks little Evie over, can’t find any internal “damage” caused by my son’s posterior. Pops a thermometer up her bum, which funnily enough she doesn’t seem to enjoy, says she has a high temperature and gives her two injections, one anti-inflammatory and one anti-biotic. He reckons there’s no need to keep her in for observations, she might just have a little virus and my son is in the clear. For now. I leave with a scandalised cat, £53.10 lighter, a smidge of relief with instructions to return tomorrow evening to check how she’s doing.
And this is all before 11am this morning. Christ, I think I should have picked a different career. I know I wrote on my resume, “Thrives under pressure,” but dealing with a sickly, squashed cat, an insane three year old and a very ill, dizzy other half is taking the piss a bit isn’t it, life?
Be sure to tune in tomorrow, for the next exciting installment, folks!
How was your day? Did you, like me realise your child was a future serial killer, before you’d even had your caffeine fix? And are you totally sure there isn’t a secure unit for under 4′s I can send mine to? Like a giant bouncy castle, with electric fencing and the Veggies from Mr Bloom’s Nursery on security?
I’m going to dig the parenting books out of the bin from last night, and check for any hidden pages or invisible ink, to make absolutely certain I’m not missing a chapter about this shit and down another bottle of pink wine. Bottoms up! But not on the cat, remember.