Clown Fever

I’m hoping, like the Pokemon, that this crazy killer clowns phenomena is just a passing phase. Although, judging by the amount of couples and groups walking past us multiple times glued to their phones while we were dining at the Town Basin recently, one would beg to differ if even that is going to end.

But this clowns thing, whether we try to keep it from our kids or not, they were always going to find out. It’s been the talk of the playground.

Master Ten came home the second Monday after the holidays full of it, having heard it from his mates. Then, catching a glimpse on the news, he, along with his siblings, was fixated.

Shortly after, it was the bedtime routine, amid much hysteria regarding killer clowns.

“There’s one at your window!” exclaimed the boys to their sister as she emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

She scuttled, right, into the lounge, instead of left towards her room, where she proceeded to stay for the duration of the evening.

“What are you still doing in your towel? Go put your nightie on,” I said, suddenly noticing the state of her an hour later.

“I’m too scared to go down to my room,” she whimpered.

“Oh for goodness sake, there are no clowns down there – the boys are just being silly.”

“But the news said there are clowns killing people – are they in New Zealand?”

“No, it’s all overseas.”

“Yes, there was one in Hamilton,” piped up her brother.

And so it went on. I finally got the kids to bed after ‘de-clowning the house’ but the conversation continued amongst them for a long time.

The next morning the hype continued and they went off to school ‘spotting’ clowns in the gardens and bushes along the way. By that afternoon it was the talk of the playground and tall stories of bravado were surfacing all around. One of Master Ten’s mates apparently kicked a clown in the privates while another ran one down with the car. By mid-week, Ronald McDonald had gone into hiding and Batman was now on the scene to hunt down the clowns.

But that was all last week and this week the talk has been on Halloween.

“So, what do you want to dress up as?” I queried after they asked if they could go trick or treating.

“Clowns!” replied the boys. “So then we can hunt down the real clowns.”

“But what if there’s a Batman who hunts you down?”

Their mouths dropped open while they contemplated this.

“Oh yeah,” said Master Ten. “Then I’m gonna be Batman.”

“Me too,” said little bro.

Needless to say, the jury’s still out on the trick or treating front this year.

My Least Favourite things

The antithesis to Julie Andrews song My Favourite Things for me would go something along the lines of: “Sticky tape and superglue, batteries and Chupa-Chups; Opening McDonalds toys  and likewise the Happy Meal cups; combing the knots amid hissing and snarl-ing – these are a few of my least-favourite things.”

“Mum, here’s your favourite job,” announced the youngest, handing over a roll of sticky tape and giving me a wry smile. Oh how I loathe finding the elusive end of the sticky tape, the request of which usually comes in the middle of cooking dinner with wet and slippery hands. And don’t even talk to me about superglue. How to use that stuff without gluing your fingers together is beyond me but let’s just say my fingertips have a permanent layer of dried glue and the bench a regular sheen from wiping up the fast-drying spill. 

Batteries? Like the superglue, which always needs replacing because the end has also glued itself together, these are a regular feature on the grocery list for toys and what-not but, on the plus-side, I’ve become pretty deft with the screw driver. 

Speaking of super markets, it’s standard practise for your kids to be eyeing the dreaded Chupa Chups at check-out and it’s all very easy to chuck a few onto the conveyor belt to keep them happy but then comes the hard part: opening the blimmin things! What, is the wrapper end super-glued to the stick or something? 

And don’t you just love it when you’ve sat down to tuck into your Quarter Pounder Combo, when three Happy Meal juice bottles (okay, they aren’t exactly cups but I’m no Eminem when it comes to rhyming) consecutively get thrust at you for opening, after you’ve already been bombarded with three Happy Meal toys ensconced in seemingly kiddy-proof plastic bags.

And the knots. It’s hard enough keeping on top of my own unruly mane, which tends to easily dread, let alone putting a seven-year-old through the torture of disentangling her lengthy locks – hence the transformation from sweet little girl into hissing, snarling wild animal.

But then at random times of the day, little warm arms, the hands of which still hold the vestiges of their tubby babydom, appear from behind to wrap around your tummy and melt away all those first world problems and these are a few of my favourite things.