If it's not the endless chlorine headaches and washing associated with swimming lessons (FFS!?), it's the painfully wanky and exacting standard of dress required by dance teachers. FFS!?
Seriously...Miss7 once attended a local dance school whose teacher dressed me down, as you would a naughty child, because I had tied the knot of Miss-then-4's ballet skirt slightly off center from the knot of her wrap around cardigan. And I stood there and took it and mumbled an embarassed apology while trying to keep my 6 month old twins quiet. MoFo....
Miss7's specialists have long harassed me about signing her up for martial arts classes. Every time we have a check up I vow to look into it and promptly forget. FFS!?
Only to remember in the wee early hours of every morning that I awake with a start and realize I've forgotten to look into it. FFS!?
And then I'm screwed because the mother guilt sets in and I can't possibly get back to sleep when I'm wasting precious time not being a good parent. FFS!?
The months of non-karate chopping neglect meaning she will never be able to walk through a doorway without awkwardly banging into a wall, just like her mother. FFS!?
That she'll never be picked first for any team sports thanks to her poorly athleticism and muscle density, just like her mother. FFS!? I'm both responsible for the issues in the first instance via basic genetics, and also responsible for the lack of parentally responsible action to correct or at least improve the situation. FFS!? It's amazing to me that she hasn't already attempted to emancipate herself. No FFS!? Likely installing her younger sister, the tyrannical Miss4, as my replacement. No FFS!? Which everyone would probably deem a step in the right direction. So finally, after much midnight maligning I got off my arse and booked Miss7 in to a recommended martial arts class for beginners. No FFS!? TWO DAYS A WEEK. FFS!? WTF? Since when did a kiddy beginner class require such commitment FFS!?
Such dedication FFS!?
Such a time suck FFS!? If they start talking tournaments and concerts and DIY sequinned uniforms I am out. FFS!? Just like the last time we attended dance classes. Seriously, I'm a bit sad and filled with the exact opposite of enthusiasm and excitement. FFS!?
Gone are my dreams of shooting off to a tropical island for an impromptu holiday for a week upon discovery of a small previously forgotten bank account - lest we miss a vital class. FFS!? Gone are my usual afternoons of elastic waisted tracksuit pants wearing laziness. FFS!? I'm going to have to leave my face on. Like, all day. Into the evening. FFS!? I'm really not sure I'm up to the commitment. FFS!?
I feel like an unwilling masochist - reluctantly spending my
I'm a millisecond away from creating my own kiddy sporting team - nay, LEAGUE - I may have to start a hopscotch league in my driveway.
I don't have to leave home for training or match day. No FFS!?
I can be the tyrant leader of my own club, making others do the grunt work of supervision and coaching and refereeing and shit. No FFS!? Do you even referee hopscotch? Myeh. I know for damn sure there's no team uniforms to wash and iron. Just come straight from school and kids will be paired up with whoever else shows up in the same / visually similar attire. No FFS!? And parents are expected to adhere to the strict BYO snack policy. Vegetable sticks for players, vino for parents. No FFS!?
Show up if you want, nobody really cares. None of this entire year-long commitment shit. If you've got somewhere better to be, then good for you, bravo! No FFS!? No fees. Participation is open to any child whose parents are prepared to drink wine in my driveway without judging. No FFS!?
Who wants in?
