Well, it’s been ANOTHER successful outing for the Kingsbury Clan.
After scouring the internet for ideas on kids activities last night, I decided on a low key trip to Bunnings to expand these little minds in choosing and planting some herbs for our new garden. Side perks – internal cafe, kids playground, free balloons; all weighed up against wading through the tide of testosterone that is grunting men stroking tools. I deemed this a winning way to spend the morning.
As per usual, it takes the standard 1.5 hours just to leave the house. Even if the destination is 6.8km away. The Bunnings experience begins with Mr 2 losing his mind in reference to some imperceptible difference in the balloon he’s received compared to his brothers. To cope: you’re drinking your coffee, thinking about where you can get your next coffee, so jumped up on caffeine to survive your day of parenting, that you’d likely punch a stranger in the throat as an exaggerated startle response for an unexpected close range sneeze.
At that point, Mr 4 hits a grid drain with his tots trolley and sends his herb punnets flying. Cue: Grand Mal meltdown and Niagara tears.
So you’re on your knees with handfuls of dirt shovelling your franken-herbs back together, simultaneously trying to use it as a resiliency moment; “it’s okay, no biggie, accidents happen” when a stranger declares “he hit the drain.”
EVIDENTLY Stranger! You hold back informing said stranger that you don’t need her affidavit at this point, and wonder vaguely if that throat punch would make the 6 o’clock news if it were to be delivered in context.
At that stage, a vagrant tradie catches your eye and offers you a coquettish-come hither smile, and you wonder vaguely how any of this is presenting as HOT – on your knees, covered in dirt, with two snot smeared kids who are emotionally dysregulated.
Not surprisingly, you abandon all plans to playground and enjoy the moment remotely and bundle your hot-mess clan (who are now eye-gouging and hair pulling and finding all that hilarious) into the car before anyone has a chance to call DOCs.
And imagine your surprise (seriously every time) when despite both having 3 course breakfasts, they tell you they’re STARVING. So you hit McDonald’s drive-through because you’d rather put a pistol to your temple that pull two kids in and out of car seats for a second time in one day, irrespective of the anticipated nutritional gains.
At the moment when Mr 2 takes precisely three bites of a singular nugget then jettisons an entire small fry across the backseat of your freshly cleaned car – you decide to phone your IVF Doctor.
Apparently they don’t offer refunds.
Written by: Rachell Kingsbury