Night time wanderings of trainee humans.

Of course it has been a while since my last post, it always is. I have been very busy trying to retrain to be incompetent in a completely new arena, and have been delighting in savagely bi-polar behaviour from the Nazgul. The resulting stress levels have been spectacular and I have indulged in such hobbies as forgetting to turn the gas stove-top off for 6 hours, drawing very odd characters such as "Kevin the Ant thief", "Ralph the King of the Purple Lizards" and "Jack the BAD frog" for the children, completely forgetting then getting disturbed when I find the pictures. Fun times indeed.

Things wouldn't be so dire if the Nazgul hadn't started a new hobby, where between 9pm and 2 am is WAKE TIME. This mainly involves her laying in bed yelling "My Mummy. I want my Mummy" then when I go in, tenderly stroking my face saying "My Mummy. I wake my Mummy up" and then demonically laughing for ages. In a fit of desperation the other night, I hurled There's a Hippopotamus on the Roof Eating Cake at her and said "Just read this in bed" and stumbled off into a wall. I was so sleepy I had forgotten her reading that book just involves her sitting there shouting "HOMO" at every page, so the sounds coming through the monitor from her room sounded more like a group of bogans on train platform, than a toddler reading session.

Anyway, I am not alone in this. I am actually comparatively lucky, it seems the new craze sweeping the nation's 2.5 yr olds is waking up in the middle of the night and running amok through the house. Many of my friends seem to have discovered they have tiny little Keith Richards' rampaging through their homes any time sleep is attempted. There has been a lot of buzz on the inter-webs that "this too shall pass", "it is a developmental stage", "you just have to stay consistent" blah blah blah, bottom line being that it will improve and you just have to wait for their developing brains to finish this particularly phase of rewiring. All I can say is BULLSHIT. I have developed a fool proof strategy for getting the little bastards to stay in bed (and this is heaps better than my other ideas of getting Brian Blessed to do Jane Austen audio books, roller pants, and us changing our surname to Eastwood). I have written a meditative story to read to young children, with a clear subtext that they can relate to their own existence and therefore be aided in developing new strategies around sleep.

Night-time Meditations for Naughty Little Boys.

Are you snuggled comfy under your covers? Ok now, Mummy will read you one story and then it’s time for lights off and time for sleep.

Once upon a time, not as long ago as you might think, there was a little boy/girl who used to get out of bed every night. Every night their Mummy would tuck them in, kiss them good night but they just wouldn’t stay in bed. Their Mummy was so beautiful and worked so hard but was so sad because their little boy/girl was so horrible.

One night, the little child was EVEN worse than before, he/she jumped out of bed so HARD that he/she woke up SLICER-BEASTIE.

Slicer Beastie, has metal teeth and lives under the beds of children. When children get up when they are not allowed, Slicer Beastie wakes up and drags them by their ankles under the bed and eats their little faces off.

Now, Good night Sunny/Erin/Rachel/Lucy/Orion/Elijah/Fern/Amber. Sweet dreams. Mummy will come in and check that you are still alive. Love you poppet. 

The End

Now, off to work towards my dream of being a developmental psychologist.

Fuck you, Shannon Lush.

First before we get too far into anything, as usual it has been a while since I have frequented here and to those people that have been harassing me about when this post was going to appear...stop and think. You are following The CRAP Housewife. Not The Organised Housewife, Not The Gives a Fuck Housewife, Do you not think the answer to your question might be in the title? To me crap is not just a word it is a way of life.

So what prompts me to be airing my unwashed smalls on the internet today? Simply, housework. I hate it, I avoid it, I suck at it but sometimes, goddamn it, even I have to do it. Or more accurately, start to do it, then go on-line where I just look at a screen and not the chaos surrounding me. I would have quite happily avoided domestic drudgery for another season or two but fate has a funny way of kicking you in the ovaries, chiefly in the form of an 8 year old boy with absolutely no drive to aim his stream of urine...well anywhere really.

Now several years ago I actually purchased Shannon Lush's ode to vinegar and bicarb soda "Speed Cleaning", unfortunately I misunderstood the title and it is NOT a tome on the use of narcotics to aid in household tasks and I am now stuck with a book whose core philosophy makes a mockery of me and all I stand for. Let me tell you there is not one single chapter, paragraph or line in this book that advises one on what to do when you are sitting innocently on the toilet, hiding from your spouse and off-spring, only to be overcome with the smell of rancid piss. Not one mention of this phenomenon that numerous women across the country face every day of their lives. Do you know why? Because fucking vinegar and bicarb has absolutely no effect on fermenting human urine. Insert surprised face here.

Last night I would have much rather been laying on the couch shouting random insults at my first husband (I believe I told him he was like if Hitler and Captain Caveman had a love-child) but instead I was bleaching the area around the toilet which was covered in a layer of radioactive looking kid whizz. After which I felt akin to having spent all night in an inner-city nightclub in 1996 and felt sure that I would no longer be stalked around the house by a thick yellow cloud of stench. Imagine my dismay this morning when I enter the bathroom and become immersed in what can only be described as olfactory hell. Upon further investigation it turned out the smell of rancid piss was, in fact rancid piss that had become trapped under the toilet seat during one of Rainman's water-passing frenzies. Now did I run to the pantry like Saint Shannon and reach for the fish and chip dressing? No because only a moron would think of such a ludicrious response to such an extreme bodily fluid related event. Actually I retched for a while and then was determined to respond to this situation Crap Housewife Style, and got every cleaning product that had a skull and cross bones on it, and nuked the living fuck out of that bacteria ridden toilet all the while swearing profusely and inventively.

Now this is not an isolated event. Rainman pisses around and on the toilet much more frequently than he ever pees into it. I have seen him on many occasions standing in front of the toilet, willy popped out of the top of his pants, tooth brush hanging out of his mouth, with his hands on his hips as he stares at the ceiling and kind of sways thus drenching a 1.5 metre radius in liquid human waste. In the same vein, he can regularly be seen spraying the bathroom in pee as he reads a comic/book and then will flatly deny that he is in anyway responsible for the yellow rain running down the walls. Please see the below illustration and note the lovely white shine and it's contrast with the uric acid stains, I really believe it adds to the general ambiance of the space:

N.B: This is the AFTER shot, it had been soaking a solution of bleach and toxic chemicals for 4+ hrs when this shot was taken.

Now Shannon, on the whole, seems reasonably harmless for a cult leader but sadly, she is not alone in the tour of maddness gripping the world...stay tuned for a further rant on the destroyers of society and my private battle with a escaping body fluids.

P.S. My view on editing and grammar is also expressing in the blog's title, so you know, fucking shutup about it nit-pickers.

Don't give up your day job

So it has been many moons since my last post, the more traumatic things are around Crap HQ, the less possible it is for me to bitch about how idiotic the inmates here are. And there sure have been incidents aplenty around these parts, let me tell you. The Nazgul continues to both perplex and torture, her current pastimes are limited to a) insisting that she IS rockabilly icon Imelda May which involves studying this YouTube clip http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OhogVvwbwkw&ob=av2e  repeatedly to mimic Ms May's mic technique all while insisting, at age 2, that she wear red lipstick. When prevented from using the PC for this purpose, it just insists on the song being played over and over and over until a piece of me dies (given her poor language skills her requests just involve shouting BOOM BOOM into my face...a lot) b) Randomly shouting ME A BOY, it appears she has some KPI to hit 1200 false gender assertions a day; and c) only eating food from the plate pictured below, this may seem comparatively mild but rest assured the horror that goes along with this cannot be underestimated:

Rainman continues his campaign of special idiocy and recent highlights on this trail include*: having to be told to stop repeatedly walking into a locked turn style; having to be reminded to walk through an open door; and subjecting his mother to a 20 min descent into hell, trying to ascertain whether he did indeed produce the painting she purchased from his school in a fundraising capacity (this non-stop joy ride included him initially claiming to have done none of it despite his photo appearing in 3 separate places on the "artwork", then claiming he had done a small portion, then moving on to an intricate conspiracy theory that involved him having done parts of it but it largely being doctored for some reason only known to himself. It eventually degenerated into him sulking and refusing to look at me while I fruitlessly shouted "Did you draw anything on this page?" over and over, as on-lookers stared and tutted...turned out he did it in its entirety and forgot). And My First Husband...well that is another post and many many years of therapy.

I like to think that the reaction people have to witnessing my housekeeping is "don't give up your day job", mainly because it would tie in so nicely with this post and provide a realistic anchor to the title, and don't get me wrong, I do like to think this, but in reality very few venture into my household and those who do are more likely to be scanning for exits rather than concocting pithy internal dialogue centred around me.  And this fact in itself is a blessing, it would be terribly awkward for the pondering guest to discover, that in amid the turmoil, my day job gave me up. Ahh yes, in a surreal twist of fate a project I do not work on lost its funding so I lost my job and may have been involved in one of the most bizarre sacking interviews post-industrialisation.

I had an idea of what was coming for a few days prior, and instead spending the morning before The Meeting either trying to come up with justifications on why I was indispensable, or uncovering budget adjustments that could be made to avoid the need for this sacking, I threw myself wholeheartedly into coming up with disconcerting responses to the news that my employment would cease, front runners were deadpanning "I don't accept" and then just carrying on the conversation,  narrating the whole scene as if in a very poorly written novel ("The Crap Housewife looked out the window, fighting back tears, she choked out "I understand" knowing this would mean going back on the game after battling so hard to get off that corner...actually awesome Blogstress Field of Dreams came up with a hilarious narrative that I must dig out). In the end My First Husband struck on the winner: - Keeping with the general incompetence theme of my life, every time I have chewing gum I bite the inside of my cheek, having done this moments before scheduled meeting with such gusto that there was blood inside my mouth and I mentioned this to My First Husband in a text conversation where he recommended that as soon as I was told letting the blood dribble from my mouth, begin screaming and then run out of the room reminiscent of the legendary sacking scene in Fight Club (I was going to put a link to this scene but then realised if you don't know Fight Club, then you can fuck right off, you ain't no friend of mine and this includes my remaining grandparent). I was worried that walking in giggling, gittering from my anxiety relieving tactic of excessive coffee drinking, with a mouthful of blood might be slightly off-putting for my superiors imagine my relief at the scene that unfolded where I emerged as the most stable person in the room. Yes, they will write songs about that day.

If you, for argument's sake, were awarded the Order of Australia for services to psychiatry would you think the best icebreaker for the firing of a long serving employee would be not only to open with the recent death of their sister but to say (and I swear this is a direct quote, absolutely no embellishment, hyperbole or surgical enhancement) "So are you and your family over...the...ummm....tragedy?". I kind of sat there shaking my head as this response went through my head "Oh you mean watching the person I felt closest to on the planet die in front of me less than 2 months ago, yeah a bit of time's passed so it's fucking hilarious now. Its not like I cry until I vomit, or that the world makes little sense to me because for the first time in my memory I have to live in a reality without her in it, or I try to text her when something funny happens or go to buy her gifts or anything. My parents on the other hand, shit they are milking it, sure they also watched her die and buried their youngest and best child (to my brother: dude we both know even dead she is better than us at most stuff, shit she was even my favourite child) when their friends with children the same age are welcoming new grandchildren...you know its been a couple of weeks so really...". After this silence I said gravely and very slowly, as if I were addressing a special needs child who was holding scissors and a kitten "Do you mean my sister dying, then no, not even close, its very very recent". Now given the response, the tone of delivery and the fact that the messenger was really working at fighting back tears, do you think said psychiatrist might stop this unique and 'gifted' softening up before some bad news...you guessed it folks he thought now he might ask some medical questions, say useful things like "she was sick for a long time wasn't she" (see because that makes it alright, if she was running a triathlon and was hit by a truck, now that would be sad). And so it continued in this vein but by this stage I had retreated to my happy place (where John Farnham's "You're the Voice" is national anthem and I am queen of all I survey) then he claps his hands together in a "enough of this revelry" fashion and says "Well as you know xxxx didn't get funding, so we have to make some budget cuts to carry the research on at 50% capacity for 12 months, well we maybe, might have to let you go". I have to confess I did laugh and had to help him out by saying "There really aren't grey areas here, I am taking this to say that due to budgeting constraints you are not renewing my contract?". After he responded that yes, this is what he had intended the meeting moved on to me providing industrial relations advice on the non-renewal of contracts whilst staff are on maternity leave. At the conclusion I walked out somewhat bewildered and my immediate supervisor burst into tears (I really had misjudged the situation since I thought that was my role in the proceedings).

At least now I am free to pursue my dream of becoming a Henry Winkler impersonator. And from what I can tell that mainly involves sitting around unemployed thinking about the good old days when we all just assumed Ron Howard was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill twat (never knowing that beneath that goofy ginge surface lurked the future maniacal overlord of the film industry)...and hell, I was thinking of doing that anyway, so as the saying goes all's well that ends well (even if there is a body count, unemployment, a socially delayed psychiatrist and 3 foot tall deranged idiots thrown in the mix).


*NB: Please be aware that the events depicted here took place within one afternoon, and resulted in subsequent hair loss, nausea, dizziness and predictions of impending doom.

***Please note, this is not the original version of this post. Courtesy of RainMan sitting behind me chanting "Type, type, type" as I tried to add a comma (don't know what was wrong with me, as anyone who has read this knows, I believe grammar and punctuation are for the weak), I ended up deleting the actual interview description, which was awesome, it would have made you laugh, cry and wank yourself blind. Unfortuantely since I neither plan nor think about what I say/write or do, it is irreplacable. I apologise if the current description feels like wearing 2nd hand undies but well it kinda is. xxxx CH***

A day in the Life: Wednesday 26th October

The Nazgul has swapped pushing my buttons for violently headbutting them since she woke up this morning. She has varied her activities from throwing sequins and pipe cleaners in the toilet, to subjecting me to long screaming fits of "No Mum, Daddy. Daddy come, Daddy come", attempting to leave home and go to daycare, refusing to wear clothes and a long list of other things my brain has simply repressed. So, for some reason that may one day be discovered by a dedicated team of psychiatrists, I decided I would wear her on my back to collect RainMan from school.
I don't drive, and public transport is rarely kind to us, I am quite often bullied by elderly passengers or denied entry by drivers, and yet nothing could prepare me for what was to follow. I got on the bus and after the driver aggressively pulled away from the bus stop knocking me off balance I realised the only vacant seat was next to what can only be described as a "fat mental", now I am notoriously weak stomached and am particularly nauseated by the unwashed so I was already descending through the layers of hell as I was squished there. The Nazgul decided, at this point, she objected to this gentleman and all he stood for and began attacking him with a frisbee (which she bizarrely insisted on bringing) shouting "NO TOES", repeatedly.
After this I developed the belief that the return trip would be incident free, again this is something that warrants robust psychiatric investigations. The Nazgul had abandoned the frisbee to free up both hands to remove the maximum amount of hair from my head, while shrieking her mantra of "NO TOES". She quickly graduated from this to attempting to forcibly remove my earrings, the resulting shriek from me managed to alert the entire bus to my plight, unfortunately my fellow passengers were not as sympathetic as one might expect. The fact that I proceeded to take my earrings out so enraged the Nazgul that it rammed its finger into my ear and pulled back with all its strength swapping her battle cry to "TWO EARS", I was oblivious to the fact the bus had stopped until passengers started cramming on and one (who mercifully did not look in my direction) was an ex-boyfriend. Now, I have been with My First Husband for over a decade but I still like to imagine any previous pastimes (aka exes) as sitting in a darkened room Miss Havisham style, perhaps rocking and lamenting the day they lost me. To see them walking about apparently unscathed by the events of the late 1990's is bad enough, but to be faced with the prospect of them seeing you, when you are not wearing flattering and stylish evening wear with perfect hair and make up so perfectly applied you look younger than you did then, is too much to bear. Thanks to a morning of repeated assaults by someone slightly taller than a garden gnome, I had actually abandoned my "stain threshold" and was wearing jeans smeared with some substances best not to think to much on, was completely sans make-up which highlighted the wonderful crop of pimples I am cultivating on my chin and my hair, of course, had been styled by the Nazgul only moments earlier. Apparently my blood shot eyes and dull stare complete the grief chic look I have been sporting of late. I remedied this by looking in the other direction (who says I know nothing of strategy). RainMan who was standing in front of me decided saying in his most petulant voice, at volume "Why do you keep looking at me? Stoooooppp iiiiit" while the Nazgul kept just screeching and then chewing on the seat rests. Somehow I doubt he was regretting blowing his chances with me.
When we did finally get off the endless, can only look in one direction, bus journey, RainMan started obsessively fiddling with his watch getting visibly frustrated as The Nazgul just shouted repeatedly "My Daddy, NO MUM. My Daddy". After repeated warnings over the next ten mins (with the Mum is shit/I want my Dad soundtrack provided by The Nazgul the entire time), I ended up confiscating the offending watch and restrained myself from grabbing him by the shoulders and screaming "QANTAS NEVER CRASHED" into his face. He spent the entire trip home crying and giving me death stares and I removed the Nazgul from my back because I just couldn't cope with further hair loss. As I was sending increasingly desperate pleas for help to My First Husband, The Nazgul realised she had forgotten to step in any dog shit so remedied this by running back to a large piece she had spied on the foot path, stomping on it and then laughing, pointing at her bum and saying "pooh".
Now, I recently read a journalist commenting on the proliferation of motherhood blogs about and labelled them as either "living on one wage tips" or "bad mummy confessionals", I think over the progression of this blog it is pretty clear this is not a bad mummy confessional, the problem is clearly THEM rather than me. I am a great mummy, they are just too fucked up to notice.

A Day in the Life: Tuesday 20th September

Ahhh, Music Class Day, and day where the Nazgul pushes my awesome parenting into uncharted territory (RainMan has reserved Wednesdays aka Swimming Day as his very special, how much can I make Mum weep day of the week). Things were going a little too well as I tried to get ready to take her, she had eaten some breakfast and let My First Husband dress her without any evidence of the usual psychosis (e.g.the latest one is, she loved a shirt I bought her recently until I convinced her the picture was of a dog not a cat as she believed, now when she realises that is the shirt she has on she shrieks and tries to rip it off her the same one someone would if their shirt was aflame). And I had even been to the toilet without her attempting to stab me with some sort of writing implement. They only hiccup was RainMan chanting "Mum looks mental, Mum looks mental" then when I told him to shut his cake hole, he said "I am going to put up a sign in minecraft that says My Mum looks completely mental"...like he is ever going to be allowed to use the PC again.

The offensive non-cat T-shirt

Both my children have a gift, that they can sense when I am trying to apply mascara and they unleash a shit storm. While we were saying bye to RainMan and My First Husband as they left for the day (we are old school so RainMan walks to school with his Dad, it is close to 4ks) I saw that what I had referred to in my mind as "independent play" was actually the Nazgul spitting inside my shoes that were on the floor. Shortly after they left she unleashed the 1st barrage, she lay in wait until the mascara wand was poised to cause the most damage to my cornea and then threw a massive paddle brush onto my toes shouting "Ohhhh Noooo" and pissing herself laughing as I rolled around swearing and sweating until the pain subsided enough for me to assess the damage to my toes and then allow the wave of pain from my maybeline stabbed eye to drown me for a time.
When I had been through my self administered triage and suitably recovered to attempt make up application again, she was careful to bide her time until the mascara wand was back in position and then flung herself off the ground and onto my legs and began twisting, moaning "Mmmmuuuummm, Mmmmuuuummm" when this didn't elicit the hoped for occular injury she reverted to her old favourite of taking a run up and ramming her dolls pram into my shins shouting "No Bubba, Nooo Buubbba, No Bubba" (English translation: I no longer wish to play with my doll and yet for some reason rather than walk away, I keep going. This irritates me somewhat and therefore my Mother shall suffer the consequences). I have to say my new look probably fits in with RainMan's earlier assessment, although I call it "Relentlessly abused by an unbalanced toddler chic".
After much struggle I bribed her with cheese to sit in the pram and we were off. It is fortuitous that I leave my ipod at home when out with the Nazgul, had I had it in I would have missed the soundtrack she provided of "Daaa-iiiieee, My Daaa-iiieee" (English Translation: Daddy, My Daddy) over and over and over until I think some blood came out of my ear. Luckily we ran into My First Husband on the way and following the encounter she added crying to the I want my Dad, you are shit symphony.
This was coupled with the permanent sense of absence that has joined my life since my sister left for Valhalla, so imagine my glee when approaching the hall for music class there was a lone council worker, resplendent in his fluro orange vest belting out, tv talent show style, John Farnham's "You're the Voice". I don't think I have ever seen anyone let rip on the roadside like this guy, with his eyes closed and arms flung wide...I could hear him as I walked down the road with squinty eyes, damaged toes and a mangled heart, and I couldn't help but think "Well things aren't that bad after all".

 Post Script: Since writing the above I have had to take the Nazgul out in extreme wind to pick up RainMan from school. He is in fine form today, as the Nazgul was crying for her father after a massive gust blew grit into her eyes, I am pushing the pram and trying to calm her, he decides it is the opportune moment to shove a mangled pipe cleaner ridiculously close to my face and say "What animal is this Mum?", to which I replied "It's a pipe cleaner not an animal" then through a bizarre combination of elimination and intense frustration we determined he had 'sculpted' it into a flamingo. 30 secs later we rounded the corner where I was disturbed to see a gentleman driving at high speed backwards while smoking cigarillo and scowling, when RainMan saw fit to thrust the abomination into my face again and say "What's this again?" So I said "a flamingo" to which he replied "no no not that",  Ahh a pipe cleaner Rainman, its a pipe cleaner and a yet another piece of my brain died for my own protection. Shortly after we were waiting to cross at an incredibly busy T intersection when RainMan unexpectedly shouts "Now, you can cross NOW",  I instinctively yelled "RAINMAN SHUT UP". Once across the road he said narkily "Well I just didn't see that car" oblivious to the fact there were FIVE at least. And now seeing him run past frantically holding the front of his trousers, I am certain I am in for one of those afternoons.

Grief V's The Toddler.

Well I have been kind of quiet in cyber space, and I guess in general. My beautiful sister and greatest fan died a week and a bit ago and everything I try to say since comes out kind of weird and wrong, the massive dangling snot from my nose when I sobbed my way through trying to read something at her funeral is a prime example of this. Many people came up to me afterwards and said I was "brave" for my attempt, who knew public boogey mishaps could be inspiring.
Like most things, not even the proximity to death could slow the Nazgul down. While on the whole she was tame, by her standards, she does get an honourable mention for unbridled mentalness during a difficult time. Sitting by my sister's death bed I was pouring my heart out, thanking her for introducing me to my husband and whispering many secrets and truths that are only for her and I. As a kissed her and stroked her forehead I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye and turned to see the Nazgul repeatedly stabbing a banana with my keys, Charles Manson style. Now as a Sydney-sider bananas are to us what cows are to the Hindu, so I was absolutely gutted to see my angelic looking daughter going helter skelter on the precious fruit. Which she subsequently peeled, attempted to eat but rejected due the the texture.
Obviously, things were pretty strange for the Nazgul after her Aunty died and she had an amazing coping mechanism of re-enacting scenes from Riddley Scott's Alien and attaching herself to my face all night and refusing to sleep. It reached a peak one night where while attached to my face her affection tipped over into insanity and she began kissing my face, graduated into repeatedly biting my face, then bit and sucked on my lip resulting in some quite spectacular bruising and teeth marks. I have to admit that at 3am a crazed toddler gnawing at your face can make you more than a tad frightened.
When the family was discussing the funeral arrangements with the undertaker I was quite pleased that the Nazgul was amusing herself quietly, just muttering "Bubble, bubble, bubble" to herself. She had very calmly covered the floor, herself and many of my sisters books in an entire bottle of bubble mix.  While highly annoying and slippery, it did highlight the fact that after spending over a week away from Rainman and My First Husband her speech improved dramatically. Turns out she could talk after all, just couldn't get a word in edge ways.

Big in Japan

It is time to face facts, even for a toddler, the Nazgul is just plain weird. Around Crap Headquarters we are pretty used to some of her more interesting behaviours and don't really blink when a new one crops up, after all we are usually busy wondering why Rainman is biting his own shoes or trying to black out the last 3hr soliloquy on Pokemon. This week she has been ill and has developed a penchant for carrying around, what can only be described as "security cheese", this is a small piece of cheese that she has no intention of eating but is comforted by carrying it around until it has bred enough bacteria to ensure intestinal damage, and then attempting to force feed it to me.
We have become accustomed to the fact that the Nazgul prefers to communicate largely in sound effects and a series of intricate hand gestures that are bordering on interpretive dance. But ultimately we are reliant on The Screech (from which springs the inspiration for the moniker "The Nazgul") and our ability to interpret it's varying pitch in order to understand what the Nazgul wants. I actually didn't think she was "that bad" (My first husband and I now have the catch cry of "well at least she is not as bad as Rainman was at this age") until today, while I was talking to a friend (and proud owner of 3 small psychopaths of her own) The Nazgul didn't get it's own way and therefore subjected me to the shriek, my friend thought it was so hilarious that she asked me to video it and that's when it hit me...no, not all kids do this, just ones I have sculpted (I should had a few clues that perhaps we were breeding something rather special here,  when we went to a sleep centre when the Nazgul was 10 months old, and the nurses who had spent 40+ yrs in the industry heard her down the corridor and said "What the hell is that").
So onto today where I managed to hit a new parenting milestone. The Nazgul was particularly displeased with having to wear trousers to pick up Rainman from school, we had already had a WWE style wrestling session trying to get them on her and I was walking down the street pushing a pram containing a convulsing, shrieking little wreck who was pulling her shoes and socks off (she lists hurling shoes onto busy roads as one of her hobbies) when a group of Asian women were startled by the sight, or more accurately - the sound, of us. One actually made movements to cross the road with the same look on her face as if there were a pack of demented wolves roving the neighbourhood but then had a better idea,  she stayed and one of her friends filmed the tantrum. Yes, bask in my awesome parenting, my kids are now so badly behaved members of the general public video their antics. When I told My First Husband about the incident, he just said "Did you tell them to fuck off*?" in such a way that I suspect he had seen this coming.
So hold on for the next youtube sensation "Dangerously unhinged white baby"

*Please note, this is a pretty standard response from My First Husband, who one day announced "You know a stranger is just someone I haven't told to fuck off yet"