Bossy Britches

“Mum, you have a bad case of repeateritus,” said Master Ten one day, as I went about cracking the whip on their evening routine.

Indeed I do but if they only turned their taringas on and did things the first time I asked, it would save a lot of wasted breath. I have tried every tactic to speed up the evening rituals so as to get a little down time but, as children get older, you can no longer shunt them off to bed at 7pm and sit down and watch Shortland Street in peace.

As I’ve lamented before, as soon as you walk through the door after school, there’s the afternoon tea and dinner preparation/consumption, bathing, homework and, in the younger days, storytime. Phew! With a husband or partner coming home amongst all that, you’re lucky if you can shout over top of the chaos a “How was your day?”

There is no down time because, by the time you come to the end of all that (multiplied by however many kids you have) you’re wacked. Then, once they’re tucked up peaceful in bed, you feel guilty about not having spent any actual quality time with them.

And so, always on the look-out for a way to make things go smoother, I devised a plan: Each day they take turns at being “Star of the Day”, who is also my helper. They make lunches while I make dinner. We chat about their day at the same time. As a reward for preparing the lunches they get to choose a half-hour family activity to do together in the evening before bedtime. But the challenge is, this must be conducted before Shortland Street, which we all like to watch. Therefore, everyone must be bathed, have brushed their teeth and put away their belongings by 6.30pm. It is up to the “Star” to make this happen and that means putting on the bossy pants and having a taste of what it’s like to be me.

“Boys, hurry up and get in the bath,” conducted Miss Seven, hands on hips. “How many times do I have to tell you?!”

They continued to ignore her, eyes glued to the tele.

“I’m getting sick and tired of this – open your taringas and listen!” she huffed as I observed from the kitchen, slightly alarmed by her resemblance to me.

“Mum, they’re just not listening to me!” their sister sighed, clearly frustrated.

“Welcome to my world,” says I.

The following night, it was big bro’s turn. “Pick up your clothes,” he admonished little bro for the third time.

“Who’s got the bad case of repeateritus now?” I quipped smugly from the sanctuary of the couch.

Death of a Phone

You hear about it happening all the time but as I’m not one to carry my phone in my pocket, never had it happened to me. Until:

“Splash!” And there is was. My beautiful new pink phone sinking into the depths of the porcelain bowl. When I say I’m not one to carry my phone on me I mean I am not someone who needs to be surgically detached from their device. I can easily leave it behind at home and, in fact, when I was asked earlier this week if I took my phone with me when I go for a run, I laughed.

But then, with the start of spring, I decided to capture my first run in six months, complete with spring splendour in the background. But I didn’t get this far. Not used to having my phone in my pocket I was careless and it took a dive. Regardless of whether the water was clean or not, after I had retrieved the phone, and being a bit of a germophobe and all, it was having a rinse.

This probably wasn’t the brightest idea either. The light dimmed before extinguishing altogether and, with that, my new phone, buzzed to a slow death. In the hot water cupboard actually. After pulling it apart, it was still making a noise I’d never heard before so, with hope, I tucked it between two towels and went for my run.

Upon my return, the buzzing had stopped and that was when realisation set in. What if someone was trying to get hold of me – it could be an emergency! I’d just cut the landline a few weeks previously and grieved the loss of the central family hub and life as we knew it as kids. Now no one could get hold of us unless they messaged through social media and that meant more time at the computer!

Speaking of that, I turned to Google. It advised plunging the device into a bag of uncooked rice to absorb the moisture. This sounded bizarre but I was willing to try anything. Oh it also said do not try to turn the device on for 48 hours but I ignored this and dipped my hand in to push the button after only ten minutes.

By then the list of people trying to get hold of me in my mind was escalating and, after trying unsuccessfully to invent a riveting story as to how it “fell into a pool of water” (jumping overboard to rescue somebody featured but, not being summer, this wasn’t holding much merit), I turned to Facebook to state my plight and ask for advice.

“There must be other muppets out there like me who have done this before?” I asked.

Sure enough, there was and the answers came thick and fast.

“Whatever, you do, don’t try and turn it on – this fries the battery!”

“Oops.”

And so here I am in a strangely silent, semi technology-free state which I can only describe as akin to losing a loved one a year on. It’s only a gadget and I certainly didn’t love it. But it’s a feeling similar to when you go to pick up the phone to call someone, only to remember they’re no longer there. Well it is but it’s still buried in the depths of a bag of uncooked rice, as dead as a door nail. I know this because I keep checking it every ten minutes.