Category Archives: random insanity

You say potato…

This morning grandma came to visit. This in itself is not out of the ordinary.

Devilette was gifted with a plush Winnie the Pooh which she immediately fell in love with. Given her current fixation on all things fluffy, this is not out of the ordinary either. But then…

We told her his name.

She immediately shouted “Poo” gleefully and, taking us at our word, proceeded to stick it in the toilet.

Fair play, baby girl. Fair play.

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On the rocks?

This afternoon at childcare, surrounded by all his teachers and ooddles of other parents, Devilboy was asked by his father what he would like for dinner. His very loud answer?

“Vodka”.

How embarassing…. he knows perfectly well that Wednesday night is Tequila night. Vodka on a Wednesday is so last year.

 

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Viking invasion

At 4am this morning I was woken in my marital bed by something hard and pointy poking into my back.

And, NO it’s not what you’re thinking, you saucy minxes.

In fact, It was a viking helmet. And by viking helmet, I actually mean a viking helmet, and a three foot sword. Both attached to a very awake Devilboy who desperately needed to tell me extremely urgent news that couldn’t possibly wait until daytime.

“Mama, I’m a magic viking!”

“But, it’s the middle of the night!” I growled (having just fallen back to sleep after being exuberantly roused by Devilette for the seventeenth time).

“Yes I know mama, that’s the magic part!”

Right.

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Filed under Devilboy, random insanity, sleep deprivation

Waxing philosophic

Thought for the day:

“Poo cannot dance because it does not have feet. Wee does not have feet either. But, a train poo goes along the track. Interesting.”

Taken from A Postmodern Manifesto – The Collected Works of Devilboy – abridged version.

Genius really. Move over Heidegger, there’s a new philosopher in town.

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Hot Breakfast

‎”Mama, I don’t like Wiggle Bix, can I have Corn Flames for breakfast?”

Sure honey, once I work out what in the name of  fuck a Wiggle Bix actually is and find time to call Kellogs to ask when and where they plan on launching their first chilli flavoured breakfast cereal.

Alternately, you could eat some toast.

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Filed under Devilboy, Mealtimes, random insanity

All you zombies

Dad of Devilboy: “Did you have fun with mummy today?”

Devilboy:             “Actually, we killed Zombies with lasers.”

I think my husband may now be quite concerned with my parenting skills.

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D’evil Kneivel


Yesterday morning I sent my beloved Devilboy to childcare dressed as a Buddhist Monk.
 

To some this may not appear to be completely normal behaviour for the agnostic mother of a blonde blue-eyed urban Aussie toddler. And they would be right – it is a trifle on the wrong side of bizarre, but there was a valid rationale behind his flowing orange robes.

No, we aren’t preparing him for a monastic life and we aren’t under any delusions that he is the reincarnation of some shining deva destined for a life of hanging with the Dalai Lama, Richard Gere or his gerbils. Nor are we trying to raise him to become the charismatic leader of some obscure cult, (though allegedly there is good money to made from that, so we certainly won’t discount that as a potential future career for our little weirdo.)

It is Children’s Book Week and we were requested to dress our little lovelies as their favourite character from a book. This week, in the house of Devilboy, that character just happened to be the very wise Guru Walter Wombat, an orange robed marsupial from the Zen Tales series of books. If Book Week had occurred a mere two weeks earlier, Devilboy would have gone dressed as a talking racing car. Thank gods for small mercies I say, as a crappy piece of orange fabric safety pinned to a t-shirt is a much less traumatic challenge for a maternal costumier than somehow turning a small boy into a racing car.

You see Devilboy, last time I checked, is not a transformer.

It is, however, becoming increasingly apparent that he is a lunatic.

Yesterday afternoon, Devilboy came home dressed as a Buddhist Monk wearing a lime green bicycle helmet… an unexpected and somewhat random addition to his costume. Stopping to pick up milk in our  snotty suburb with a squealing small boy draped in a bright orange dress and an oversized fluorescent green bike helmet raised similar levels of interest as stopping to pick up milk accompanied by a naked Angelina Jolie.

Discretion was not an option as he was a little hard to miss in all his noisy neon glory… strangers stopped to point at the pint sized freakshow and local shopkeepers were pulling out their mobile phone cameras to snap photos of my eccentric little madman… but only once they’d contained their mirth.  I lowered my gaze and tried to scurry along as fast as possible lest they thought I too was unbalanced for allowing him out on the street dressed like a psychiatric patient.

The drama didn’t cease once we arrived home and he still refused to remove the helmet. His howling objections to anyone even approaching the helmet made bed time a particular challenge. How does one put a 17 month old to bed for a quality night of sleep whilst said 17 month old is still adorned with a giant bicycle helmet?

Not being the kind of parents to back down from a challenge, the helmet was forcibly removed and Devilboy slept reasonably well, obviously still dreaming of his beloved helmet as his protests continued throughout the night. “Noooo… noooo” he whimpered as he patted his helmetless head in his sleep.

Devilboy’s unhealthy obsession with this helmet is, we think, related to his even more unhealthy obsession with motorcycles.  The devilish once can repeat his favourite word ,“bike,” a thousand times before realising it isn’t getting him anywhere, pausing and then repeating it louder another several thousand times before giving up and moving on to “vroom vroom” and screwing up his little fists in an attempt to imitate revving a bike.  

If he simply sees a picture of a motorbike, he is delighted.  If he sees an actual motorbike parked on the street he is thrilled. If sees his daddy on a motorbike he is euphoric. If he actually gets to sit with daddy on a motorbike, he has conniptions. His mummy is not a great fan of motorcycles and wishes M didn’t ride one. In fact, they scare the crap of me… making it a sad irony that my eccentric spawn appears to be the reincarnation of Evil Friggin’ Kneivel.

When the devilicious one awoke this morning his first word was “bike” and it was a matter of seconds before he was clawing for his helmet to be returned to where it apparently belongs – his crazy head.   We drove to school with the helmet firmly in place but somehow, someone one will have to forcibly remove it by the end of the day.  I waved him goodbye and skipped back to my car buoyed by the knowledge that it wouldn’t be me… as it is now his teachers’ problem and not mine. 

Hoorah!
 
 

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