Definitely the low point

And so the term ends, not with a bang, or even a whimper, but a ... chunder.

You read that right. My last lesson, A. responds to my maniacally chirpy "So how are YOU today?!" (remember, plentiful sugary stockpile in my fridge) with a "Not good."

Further questioning reveals that A. vomited earlier today but now feels pretty fine (hence his presence at class). "It's okay!" he reassures me as only a six-year-old can. "If I feel like I need to vomit I'll just go outside." Faced with this unassailable logic, we have a great lesson...

Until A. gently puts down his violin and states, "I'm going outside. I feel like I'm going to vomit." He lets himself out and has a brief discussion with Dad, who runs to their car to fetch the emergency bucket while I stay with A. .

Who vomits. Who's all done by the time Dad returns (well, his back's only big enough for one person to rub, so really best Dad timed his return to coincide with the mopping-up and glass of water operation we slide into like old pros.

I'm ready to put violin away and usher gently to the car, but when you're six, emptying your stomach on your violin teacher's back lawn is really no barrier to having a good lesson. A. marched back in, picked up his violin, and launched into "Song of the Wind" with gusto. And a joke about the previously forgotten melody having been buried beneath the half-digested noodles now gracing my garden.

I'm sure there's a joke in here somewhere about teaching and teachers and chucking, but I'm on the comedown from macaroons-with-dark-chocolate heaven, so make it yourself. And to all the parents out there, I do so too get to experience the highs and lows of parenting.

Complete with vomit.

Nearly there.

Just one more day.
Given the amount of refined sugar happily sitting in my refrigerator (honey delight, Maltesers, Lindt, Cadbury, homemade macaroons, butter shortbread, etc, etc, so forth and so on) that really shouldn't be too hard. It's been a long term.

I don't actually remember my last whole day off. You know, the kind where you can sleep in, eat toast, eat more toast, realise it's lunchtime and expend HUGE effort upon taking a shower, eat more toast and think about a short nap before dinner.... Huh. No wonder I feel like a beached whale.

And before the interminable chorus begins, let me say it for you: Oh, enjoy it now, because when you have kids...!

You know what? You're a bunch of mongers. Jealous mongers. Because I am actively non-engaged in procreation. I'm practising, thank you very much. Only when I feel that I could pass some kind of theoretical examination (not just the practical) will I attempt to bring another living thing into this world. Then and only then will I actively relinquish my sleeping-in privileges and consign them to the days PB (pre-baby). Until then, all you jealous people shut up.

Moreover, if I was really making the most of it (or, indeed, if you REALLY wanted me to make the most of it), I'd be doing this EVERY DAY. Yep. EVERY day. But I'm not. Once a week, usually more like once a fortnight.
Or, in this particular instance, once a term. So stuff your jealousy back into your skull and relax in the knowledge that I am run ragged, on empty, sleep-deprived and a little crazy right now. Just like all you parents.

It's possible that my iphone will replace the need for offspring entirely. After all, I now have something to do with every waking minute of every day (clearly I don't already have enough to keep me busy).

In other news, played Pachelbel's Canon with three of my students for the staffroom today (yes, it was full of staff at the time). Two Gr 6, one Gr 5, me. Response: Gushing. Me: You ain't seen NOTHING yet. The best part: they really haven't. There's something immensely kick-ass about being a Suzuki teacher.

There is something much less kick-ass about your husband calling out a correction to your blog post.

Yeah, well, it's my blog and I'll type "than" instead of "thank" if I want to, than you so very damn much.

See? Running on EMPTY. No sparkles left in the magic wand, try me in January.
Or February.
Perhaps.
Maybe the sugar's making me cranky....
I should totally refuel.

Phones can't scuba.

On Friday night I drowned my phone. Again. At least the last time I was aided by a sixteen? month-old who perceptively spotted that I carried a litre of water in my handbag and surely life would be a little more fun with added damp. I wasn't thrilled, and neither was his mom; two phones with one water bottle is a little precocious, I feel! Still, I fell back on my husband's phone (forcing him to downgrade to a chunky GREEN flip phone aka the Kermit bling phone) and we all continued along.

So, hadn't I learnt my lesson? Well, yes, I'm much better at restricting access to my handbag. But that wasn't the problem this time.

Scenario: Friday night.

Driving into the city to meet friend and her work colleague (aka B & C). B calls. I give her an ETA plus parking time. That's fine, they're doing some Christmas shopping, no drama.

Find a park approximately halfway across city. Visit 7-11 to facilitate gold coins for meter. Finally, car is legally parked and can begin to hike.

Text B to update her on status. Tuck phone into back pocket awaiting reply. Realise am desperate for toilet (drained L bottle of water so would not have to lug it about but could attempt semblance of hydration) and decide to stop at QV on way to city centre.

Yep, I've forgotten that my phone is still in the back pocket of my jeans. So much so that as I gratefully yank them down in the privacy of a toilet cubicle, I freeze upon hearing a certain clatter. This is the bowel-freezing terror that can only be experienced when you hear the clatter of an electronic device containing your LIFE against porcelain. Followed by a splash.

Yep.

Splash.

I leap up and am confronted with the dilemma of any adult who's become conditioned to the yuck of putting my hand into the toilet bowl. Knowing I have no other way of contacting anyone, I pull it out. And am immediately grateful for ballet. You all know what I mean. At least the water was still clear.

After scrubbing EVERYTHING I dry it off and flip the sodding thing open- and rejoice! It lives! There's a message from B stating their approximate location and a call me when you get close! And then it dies. Eff. I don't know her number...

Ten minutes later I've found a payphone, I've got $2 in 20-cent pieces, I DO know my home number, and the guy who lives there will solve this. Probably.

I call. And although I can hear the bemusement and a certain baffled patience, he does. I call back and he's not only found B's number, he's called her, explained the situation, and can tell me where to meet her.

Two city blocks and a slight error later... We meet. Happy days indeed.

A concert.