Thank heavens for Weekends! Oh how I love to wake up at my own leisure, stretching and yawning in bed for as long as I like. No alarm shrieking and none of the screaming wailing chaos of school mornings. Saturdays are bliss, well let’s just say they’re as close as it gets!
I spoke too soon, my eleven year old has wandered downstairs to find the dog has had a funny tummy overnight and left a rather large, unsightly, smelly puddle at the bottom of the stairs. Unfortunately for him he found it with his bare toes and now the sound of his overly dramatic stomach retching is filling the house.
“Mum, Mum (barf) Buddy’s poo’d (barf) it’s in-between my toes (barf Barf) Mum, help barf”.
The noise has lured my fifteen-year-old, out of his bedroom, and he is now rolling around the landing crying with laughter adding insult to injury to his brother’s shitty predicament by shouting at him.
“Ewwww, I told you your feet stink.”
Morning has broken once again in the crappiest – no pun – of situations. This by the way is all before morning coffee which means my patience levels along with my caffeine levels are dangerously low.
I make my way downstairs to find Eleven perched at the bottom of the stairs on one leg like a shit-ridden flamingo contemplating the gooey mess between his toes. His face, a picture of the disgusting terror that accompanies stepping in dog poo with no shoe or sock barrier protection. I am tempted to whip out my phone and record the moment, this was surely viral material. I suppress a giggle and the phone idea and pick him up and carry him into the downstairs bathroom.
The sound of retching once again fills the air as Hubby makes his way downstairs to see what all the noise is about.
“Darling, watch the turd at the bottom of the stairs and can you clean it up while I clean this dirty foot please”. I try to keep the smile from my voice. I know what’s coming.
My husband cannot even be in the same room as poo. Not any poo, he couldn’t even stomach the kids nappies without almost regurgitating his insides outside. A smug smile crosses my face and I can’t stifle my giggles this time around. The noise coming from the living room is priceless. Eleven’s retching was nothing in comparison to his father’s. This one might be worth some video footage.
My 13 year old has now joined in the circus and she is filming her father’s weak attempts at cleaning the offending poo with pink marigolds and a carrier bag. Now the carrier bag would be a good idea if it was a solid poop but this disgusting little puddle has nothing solid about it. He’s just smearing it around the floor blindly with his head turned in the opposite direction, retching so loud if anyone walking past outside heard him they’d surely call emergency services.
My cheeks are aching from laughing and Eleven, having overcome his horrifying ordeal, is now also giggling at the pathetic attempts his father is making to clean up the mess. He is whiter than the milk standing on the kitchen counter and I start to feel a little sorry for him. His retching still incessant and loud, the mess is no nearer to being cleaned up than it was when the dog delivered it. I wipe away the tears rolling down my cheeks, suppress my smile and grab the kitchen roll, bleach and mop.
“Leave it, leave it, you’re just making it worse”, I try to sound as stern as I can muster.
This is his cue to run, still retching to the bathroom.
With 3 pairs of eyes upon me I cannot show weakness here. I need to lead by example and, with three swift swipes, a splash of bleach, and a swish of the mop, the floor is once again squeaky clean. Mama to the rescue while Hubs is still retching in the bathroom.
“Would you like some pancakes with Nutella darling? ” I ask through the closed bathroom door. His response makes me think he probably doesn’t.
“Right guys, can you get yourselves down here for breakfast please. Football is at 11.30, can you get your kit and bag ready please.” I always say that and then always end up preparing the bag myself as I can’t trust Eleven to pack everything he needs.
Hubby finally emerges from the bathroom looking rather ghostly. The mornings events have left him shaken to say the least.
“I don’t feel well, I’m going back to bed”, he groans sheepishly, avoiding eye contact with any of us.
Well I guess that means I’m doing the football run this morning then. I hate football. The worst things about kids football are the parents, they turn into hooligans and start screaming from the side lines. I find it all rather pathetic, what do they think they are teaching their kids? They always end up arguing with each other about whose kid kicked who, who should’ve taken the free kick, who has the best player. It drives me insane so I refuse to go, but today I am left with no choice.
One hour later I am on the sidelines of the football pitch pretending to look reasonably interested in the game already taking place. The referee is a nasty little balding man with a hitleresque moustache, who is barking orders at the kids like they are on a military drill. I take an immediate dislike to him and make a mental note to have a word with the organiser. Surely he shouldn’t be so aggressive with these little kids, I mean we actually pay for this.
The game finishes and to my dismay I see Hitler return as arbitrator for Eleven’s game too. I feel the hairs rising on the back of my neck, I really don’t like this guy’s attitude towards these kids at all. It seems it’s not only me he is riling, I can hear the grunts and moans of all the parents surrounding me. It would seem he hasn’t refereed many games as the mistakes he is making are obvious, even to me, a football dunce.
By the end of the game Hitler has his own fan-club of haters! This is like history repeating itself. I’m happy the aggression is being directed at him and not the usual bitching at each other. The final straw is the free kick he gives away that brings about the winning goal. There is no way a free kick should’ve been given but he just holds his hands up in a gesture of “Whatever” to everyone contesting his decision.
I’m appalled by this awful little man, and as soon as he blows his arrogant little whistle, I make a bee line for the organiser to put in my complaint.
“Hi, could you tell me how I make a complaint please?” I ask in my least aggressive tone, even though I’m fuming.
“Why, is there something wrong madam?”
“Yes, I’d like to make a formal complaint about the referee, his attitude towards the children and his seemingly lack of knowledge on the game”.
“Well, I’m sorry madam but you’ll have to contact the FA to do that” he replies sounding annoyed.
Well I’m sorry but I am not leaving until you have helped me file a complaint, you are the organiser, I pay you, so you WILL help me”.
“Excuse me for a moment”, he snaps, as he leaves and heads off towards Hitler.
They stand nattering for what seems like an eternity before the organiser turns around and starts pointing towards me. Oh great, he’s gone and told him and now both of them are heading towards me. I take a deep breath and stand my ground. This little shit may think he can talk to small kids like that but he certainly can’t talk to me like that.
“You have a problem lady?” Hitler snaps as soon as he is within earshot. “Maybe you want to share it with me instead of gossiping behind people’s backs.”
Now he has really got my attention and that of a few parents gathering around to see what the commotion is.
“Well, I was hoping to do this in the correct manner to avoid a confrontation like this, but thanks to Steve here, it seems that thrashing it out verbally is a better idea”. I say, glaring directly at the organiser who quickly shifts his eyes to the ground.
I take a deep breath to calm myself down and explain my concerns in as much a lady like manner as I can muster.
“Your attitude towards small children isn’t what I would call normal behaviour. And your competence was rather lacking on the field and that’s coming from me who knows nothing. You managed to upset everyone with your bad decisions and normally this lot only upset each other”.
He cut me off mid flow by moving in 2cms from my face and spewing a tirade of abuse. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath stank of a boozy Friday night. He got so close to my face while jabbing his finger at me that I had to take a step back.
“Please get out of my face and try and talk like an adult. I am not a child on the pitch, I am a concerned parent and I am making my feelings clear.”
“And just what are you going to do if I don’t get out of your face, you whinging whine bag”.
Did he just call me a whinging whine bag? I was totally at a loss for words, the guy was a giant prick. I don’t know what came over me but I just whipped out my phone and took a picture of his face.
“I will name and shame you across the entire country you bad mannered, egotistical piece of work”.
Totally out of the blue, Hitler jumps me and tackles me to the ground. Oh my god, the shame. I never come here because the parents show themselves up in front of the kids and I hate it. Yet here I am on my first visit this year, rolling around the grass holding onto my iPhone as if my life depends on it, tackling a referee. I cling to my phone, clutching it to my chest like the Crown Jewels as the guy yells obscenities directly into my ear. I can hear Eleven shouting “knock his head off mom” and I cringe face down with this monkey on my back.
Steve, the shit for brains behind the organising, manages to peel him off me as he clings like a hungry leech.
“Jesus, get this idiot off me.” I screech, trying to scramble to my feet. I can feel the flush on my face begin at my ankles. The faces of 30 odd parents all flushed with cheering me on. I feel like a total football hooligan and my shame almost makes me skulk off, but I wouldn’t give this animal the satisfaction.
“You will be hearing from me, I knew something wasn’t right about you and you have just proved my point. A man who attacks a woman in public, in front of a bunch of school kids, should not be working with children. You are a disgrace and if I have to make it my life’s mission you will not work with kids again.”
The parents muster up a cheer in my support but I am so embarrassed I just want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I can’t believe not one of the men came to my rescue, what a bunch of pussies. I turn around and storm back towards my car with Eleven in tow giving me a running commentary on how I took the ref down a peg or two.
Pulling up at home Eleven can’t get out of the car and into the house quick enough to share the gossip.
“Mum just beat up the referee at my match” he shouts before even reaching the kitchen.
I slump at the breakfast table with my head in my hands. What a shitty morning! Hello weekend, and you looked so promising!
By Amelia Jane ~ Desperate Housewife UK