Tantrums.
Whining.
Fighting.

Tattle taling.

The constant mess and never ending cleaning.

The selective deafness when it comes to completing the basic tasks that are essential to getting everyone out of the house (did someone say toothbrushing and/or putting shoes on? Ugh.)Constant interruptions.
Interrupted sleep topped off with six am starts to the day.
Management of bodily fluids.

And so on.

These all contribute to the almost permanent knot of tension at the base of my neck, but there is one thing that sends me right over the edge instantly and everytime, all calm and thoughtful parenting techniques replaced by the ugly impulses of the bogan fishwife harpie.

My name is hissychick, and my parenting kryptonite is screaming/shrieking.

For some reason there appears to be a fault in the volume control of miss A of late, who has decided that the best way to get my attention is to up the volume.  I do not do being shouted at well*.  Even better, E has decided to try this shriek thing on too, seeing as it sooo effective in eliciting a response out of Mummy. Never mind that it is a somewhat negative one, in which you can almost hear the few remaining functioning brain cells inside my head explode while said head rotates three sixty degrees and green slime oozes from my mouth.

However  it’s not the angry shouting that is going to result in my premature demise, it’s the screaming as part of playing make believe.  I cannot blame A as the instigator of this beyond horrible behaviour, rather it is one of her little friends that started the whole “quick! monsters are coming! let’s scream and run away game” that is currently in favour with the four year old set.   Especially when it is being played inside where there are floorboards and the sound reverberates into your very soul.

The same friend who is coming over for a playdate tomorrow morning while her mother is at the doctors.  The very friend that will keep doing it over and over again, oblivious to the requests of any adult to cease and desist.

I think I just vomited a little in my mouth at the thought of it all.

Anyway, dear internets**, please distract me by telling me about your own parenting kryptonite(s).  I need to know I’m not the only one….

* We will not mention my recent yelling at A to stop yelling, wherein mr hissychick dissolved into fits of laughter. Ahem.

** I know it’s a bit rich asking you for comments when I haven’t been leaving many myself lately, but I promise to stop lurking and start posting. Once my ears stop ringing from the shrieking that is.

So it’s not exactly hard to understand that my sleep deprived and stressed out self is a tad over it right now.

However all is not lost.  Mr hissychick has taken it upon himself to cheer me up.  By cheer me up I mean give me an affectionate pat on the bum as he walks past. “It’s a boy hug” he gleefully tells me, oblivious to the thunderous look on my face.

The vacant block next door is far too obvious a place……

*Let us not speak of the emergency ward stuff up where a doctor checked off that she had been examined but had in fact was not seen for six hours after admission, during which time I had the pleasure of soothing my terrified child when an eighteen year old screaming in agony from a bowel obstruction was admitted into the paed bed next to ours. The very same hospital that failed to diagnose my ectopic pregnancy six and a half years ago, not once, but twice.  Never again.