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.

It's Saturday night...

And we're off to some little random place in Brunswick called the Court Jester. Their menu looks great, all comfort food and warming, bulky dishes. Occasion? Crazy Elf's birthday. And I do SO enjoy celebrating other people's birthdays. The pressure's off me. I can pick fights with the other guests, drink as much as I like, wear whatever I want and I'm not getting any older.

Except I never actually do.

I have arguments (usually with myself inside the privacy of my own skull) don't actually like being drunk, and I am getting a day older like everyone else.

You'll notice that I didn't go near the wear whatever I want thing.
My wardrobe hasn't changed much since my uni days (I once wore a full-length cotton-and-tulle petticoat with a white bonds singlet (hand-beaded) and although I usually wear jeans five days a week now, the petticoat still lurks....

Unfortunately, the bohemian (a.k.a. the "we just rolled out of bed and put this godawful WHATEVER on right over the top of our pyjamas and these aren't ACTUAL pyjamas, you understand, they're the camo pants my housemate's GRANDFATHER died in") crowd tend to sneer at those who make sartorial CHOICES as opposed to wearing the thing with the least stains on it. I'm fine with that, I just choose not to participate.

Which means I will be wearing black rats (shiny AND warm) with other stuff. Haven't decided yet, but some kind of mishmash. Which I will probably pull from the heaped chair beside my bed.

*Oh god, I'm more bohemian than I realised.
My darling husband, being a computer geek in SO many ways, will ask me what he feels like wearing. I will tell him to wear whatever he wants before saying "Argh! No! NOT those jeans, they show your SHINS!" *Must remember to throw said shin-baring monstrosities out while he's next "recreationally programming".

Hi ho, off to the shower I go.