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.