I give the Screecher Creatures awful bad press. Maybe I’m taking the revenge is a dish best
served cold idea too far. For all their
devilment as youngsters I am sure what they get up to as teens will blow all of
these current shenanigans out of the water.
Or so I am told. But as I tell those
people, bring it on. At least as teenagers
they will all be able to wipe their own backsides and strap on seat belts
themselves. I hope. I certainly don’t
plan on dressing any of them past the age of 6!
Just to clarify; everything I write about has happened. I might pad it out a little bit under the
term poetic license, and the time frame is
possibly altered a bit now and then.
What happened last month might be blogged about this month or even today
for example. I like to take a simple, mundane
happening and put a funny twist on it.
It might be exaggerated a teeny tiny bit but if I didn’t do that it
wouldn’t be worth reading about. I
realise the lads come across as wild, uncivilised heathens. (Want to know the truth?) They are only boys after
all and have boundless energy. I
wouldn’t have them any other way. Except
maybe at 5am on the second month in a row or when my eyes are welded shut with
tiredness and I can’t talk. Then I want
girls. No, I don’t. I don’t mean that at all. I want what I have. I love writing about them. I love their energy, their free spirits, and
their bounce back-ability. It doesn’t
matter that threats are dished out and on occasion followed up on, it is all
forgotten about very quickly. They start
on a new page each and every time. After
a screaming session, mine, they still come running to me as if it never
happened. I look at them sometimes and
wonder what they will be up to this time next year or in 5 year’s time. When they are outside messing in the pit of
water at the front of the house, wearing their third change of clothes so far
that day, I know the time will come when that muck pit will be forgotten
about. No more endless changes of
clothes. Or maybe there will be. Maybe there will be piles of football scrubs
to contend with. I look at them playing
happily with the two girls from next door, on the trampoline, enjoying a puck
about with hurl and a ball, tinkering with Lego and wonder will the day arrive
when they are suddenly shy and self-conscious around them. I hope not.
Sometime I see glimpses of what they might be like in the future. Screecher Creature no. 1 is a great little
artist. We haven’t gotten round to
painting over the undercoats of white paint in the house yet, so the walls in their
bedroom are literally an artist’s easel. They have made good use of them. Screecher Creature No. 2 loves his own
space. He reminds me of me in that
respect sometimes. I still like to disappear
into a room by myself whenever I get the chance and just take a moment. I remain dressed, however, during these rare
times of escape, whereas Screecher Creature No. 2 likes to disrobe
completely. Screecher Creature No. 3 is
proving to be a bit of a daredevil. He
can be a handful at times and displays a stubborn streak that I am sure will
both stand to him and get him into trouble in the future. Screecher Creature No. 4 is still in the
making but already showing definite signs of being as big a gangster as his
older brothers. He already has a
competitive streak especially when it comes to me. But isn’t bad press better than no
press? I wouldn’t have this blog today
if it weren’t for my boys. Or maybe I
would. Maybe I’d be blogging instead about cookery and how to remove stains
from clothes. Ok so that’s a blatant
lie. They haven’t set fire to a kitten
yet, nor do they go round licking windows* so as far as I’m concerned, they are
normal, boisterous boys. I am gratified
to learn, every time I put up a blog post about their shenanigans, that there
are lots of other kids like mine out there.
Some of them do sit nicely and are quiet souls, and some, like my lot,
are more active. Both are normal. And if
I need to look any further to reassure myself that they are grand I need only
talk to Mister Husband. His youth is
peppered with stories of himself and a childhood friend going on a skite with a
rifle at 9 years of age. His mother
still refuses to listen to the things they used to get up to unbeknownst to
her. Heading off with homemade bows and
arrows is tame enough. It’s when you see your child and his bessie doing
wheelies in a stolen tractor that you need to worry. Mister Husband has a degree and a Wonderful
Wagon Wife so he turned out ok. But if I catch him telling our Screecher
Creatures about his misspent youth, that will be another story indeed. As I say on a regular basis, I write a
blog. Be careful. Be very careful!
*Another blatant lie, I’m afraid. They are big, huge fans of licking
windows. Typically when I have just
cleaned them. They possess amazingly
accurate radar for such things. On
occasion they also lick stuff off the floor.
I’m sure you’ve heard of the 3 second rule? Let me explain. It means if it’s on the floor less than 3
seconds, (who moves that fast?
Seriously!) Then it’s ok to eat
it. Well, in casa Wonderful Wagon, there
exists a 3 day rule. Usually the 16
month old gets it way earlier than that, but none of them have keeled over yet.
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