A typical Wednesday goes like this:
Game addicts start hunting for their IPads at around 5am. Adults yell: ” Go back to sleep”. This tactic is unsuccessful. The day has begun.
The IPads have been hidden from the games addicts; they are forced into a state of cold turkey.
To cope with the withdrawal , they start an impromptu game of:” Ghosty, Ghosty Chicken Roasty”!
This involves the three boys yelling at the top of their lungs while the most brutal of them chases the others around the house.
We adults suffer this miserably for another half an hour before rising. The usual lack of sleep on top of the uber-responsibility from the previous day gives us a rather leaden sense of humour.
Coffee helps.
So does sticking out my foot to trip up a random rocketing Ghosty.
“Mum!” shouts Chicken Roasty.
“That should have gone on America’s Funniest home videos”.
The wee Ghosty glares at me and yells out ” Penis Brain” to his brother.
I make pancakes and am promptly forgiven for all my misdemeanors.
Something tugs on my leg. Something else yells out “Tuddle”!
The twins are awake.
I “tuddle” one, give him a kiss and change his sister’s diaper.
The twins are dressed, fed and off to preschool at 7.30am. We arrive there and are greeted by this creature:
 A flock of turkeys is resident next to the preschool. After dropping the twins I scramble up the hill to get closer:
I am fascinated by this bizarre looking creature but I give it up and leave to drop the oldest boys to their school. It’s now 8.30am.
Then me and Number Three stop at Starbucks for breakfast:
Duly fortified by apple juice and spinach croissants, we arrive at his preschool. I make a mental note to myself to get his hair cut. Parent Fail. He looks like Cousin It.
Also his top is far too big for him and he is lacking socks. I make a sheepish grin and a typical Kiwi self effacing comment to his teacher about, “his Dad dressing him”.
She looks at me strangely; I pat my head to see if I have left the rollers in like I did last week. No rollers. She just didn’t know how to respond to my typical Kiwi aphorism.
I muse on how different the American culture is as I walk to the car. It’s unusual to refer to anything not done properly. Americans do everything to within at least 80% of perfection.
And the other 20% just isn’t referred to. Sometimes it’s the basis for the goofy American sense of humor. But you never feel shamefaced. It’s just taken as a given that perfection isn’t possible but if you’re doing it the “American Way” then that’s what counts.
And the American Way is mostly do stuff well.
Including the basics of parenting where Moms and Dads quite often swap roles.
I’m learning. I couldn’t quite stop myself from making that comment that time but next time I’ll ruffle my son’s hair, smile at the teacher and turn and high five the next Dad who walks through the door.
The American Way.
