The Niggle



My Mum is one of 6 kids. She grew up on a wheat and sheep farm in country NSW. Occasionally Poppa and Nanna would pack everyone up in the car and head off to town.


One day, as they arrived home from such an outing, they realised that they were minus one child and had to turn around and go in search of the kid that was forgotten.

You couldn’t forget mine, even if you wanted to.

Yesterday, I wanted to leave one of my kids, or both preferably, in “town”, that being the neighbouring suburb. I picked them up from school and within 6 seconds an almighty fight erupted over something really, really important. Like an evil look or the word “idiot” being mouthed.

A few weeks ago, Mr. Woog got up early to take the boys out on the boat and give me a much appreciated sleep in at Jabba. About 30 minutes later, I heard the two boys making their way into the house. Bickering like there was no tomorrow. No sign of their Dad. I, for some reason, thought nothing of it and got up to tend to their every need, as one does when they are a modern day slave.

After an hour, there was still no sign of their dad, so my interrogations dug a little further.

Turns out that they had launched the boat a few beaches over. Soon, the fighting switch was flicked into overdrive and Mr Woog, stuck on a boat and having a very unpleasant time, hatched a plan.

He sailed the boat the the little beach where Jabba resides, and deposited two whinging kids onto the sand, telling them to walk home, before heading out again to enjoy the water in silence.

Well played Mr. Woog. Well played.

Have you ever told your kids to “Get out and walk home..”?
Have you ever done it?
Have you ever had to “pull over?” 
as in 
“Don’t make me pull over…”