Children maketh the parents.

my hands are tired from mashing potatoes. and while doing that i had a thought and confirmed i can never be a chef. lol. cause the food will finish before it goes on the plate. and the thing is i don't really realize cause i don't eat the whole thing. i just start picking a little and a little and picking and picking and there's just too little left to be left and i just end up finishing it.

anyway, there's an article in the sun today which is pretty nice. page 16. have a look. children maketh the parents.

it looks long but i think it's worth to read. and i kinda started half the article. not the whole article is in..

" A childless, only-child, unmarried friend of mine received the wrong lunch order. Apoplectic with fury, he was unable to work for the rest of the day (and possibly the rest of his life).

The same afternoon, the father-of-three next to him was informed by telephone that one child had smashed the TV and another had poured Ribena into the Blu-Ray disk player. The news had no effect on him.

Parents become immune to disaster. Children alternate between ruining ourlives and gibing them meaning, sometimes simultaneously.

The other night, I kissed my two most helpless dependants (granny and my youngest child) goodnight and took anothe rone (the dog) out for a walk.

I returned to find that they had gone to sleep after locking the door that connects the living room to the bedrooms, the toilets, the shower, and so on. My wife, a teacher, was working late.

When she got home, she saw why I was worried. Granny and our youngest child are world-class sleepers: I'm talking Olympic gold level. The child can sleep 16 hours straight and Granny, 20. Both remain comatose through alarms, thunderstorms, earthquakes and teenage parties.

Bereft of beds, toilets and showers, we spent hours trying to break in. We tried every key in the house, and then hairpins, screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches and our teeth.

We tried kicking the door down like in cop shows. We threw our bodeis at the door like in Hollywood movies. We used a battering ram like in Viking cartoons. Nothing worked.

We spent the night on the sofa in our working clothes dreaming of toilets. At dawn, we awoke to the ghastly prospect of going to work in our dishevelled, cross-kneed, unwashed state.

Then, my wife had an idea. Educators have a secret weapon called the Teacher Voice. It's not exactly a shout, nor a shriek, but a sort of controlled, powerful missile of low-frequency sound.

Could it penetrate several layers of doors, the roar of air-conditioners and the cocoon of Olympic-level sleep? I was sceptical.

She took a deep breathe and yelled our the child's name in her Teacher Voice. Silence. She did it a second time. Was that a slight sound we heard?

She did it a third time. Click. The door opened and the cute face of a sleepy child looked out. The previous night's trials were immediately forgotten.

Tonight, one of the kids will probably microwave my phone. Tomorrow, the dog will eat my wallet. The next day. Granny will burn the house down. Am i bothered?

No, it's all part of the rich tapestry of events which make up that joyful thing called family life. I can survivie anything. Even getting the wrong lunch order.

I am invincible. I am a parent."

all written by nury vittachi and quoted everything from there.