Tag Archives: wii

How to get your toilet clean(ish)

AS the dynamics and discussions have changed with the older boys, so the levels of chastisement have had to alter too.

Our younger two hate being separated from the action. But let’s face it, teenage boys don’t mind at all if you send them to their rooms. That’s where their stuff is (mostly on the floor) and where they can text to their hearts’ content.

One thing that all of them dread is being separated from the real love of their lives – various video game consoles. If you really want them to suffer, take away access to the PSPs, the DSIs, ban Xbox and Wii usage and you suddenly see a change of heart. But you have to follow through with the threats.

Last week, for various different misdemeanours, Billy, Dougie and Jed were all barred from the Xbox on Saturday morning (they aren’t allowed on it on school nights). This was so painful for them, they begged to be allowed to ‘earn back’ their Xbox rights throughout the week.

By Friday night, they’d done the dishwasher several times, sorted and folded several loads of washing, swept the kitchen floor, emptied the car of rubbish, and, get this, cleaned the toilets.

It sounds terrible, but I almost want them to misbehave again this week. . .


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She has Wii arm

I AM suffering from “Wii-arm” (pronounced: Wee-arm). It’s a relatively new condition.

The symptoms are a dull ache in the bicep, inability to fully straighten at the elbow, and a burning desire to try and beat your six-year old on a computer game.

We have too many computer games in our house. I can’t really moan as they were bought by the kids with their own money, but I often wonder if we need both an Xbox and a Wii.

The Xbox is newer and currently gets all the attention. But at the weekend the Wii came off the bench and kept everyone amused when it was just too hot to be active outside.

As the elder two were out doing Saturday clubs, it fell to Mum to be Player 2 while Bonnie reluctantly went for her nap.

Ten tennis matches, boxing, golf, bowling, and far too many baseball games later, I’d been roundly beaten by a six-year old and was actually perspiring. Still stubborn enough to do the Fitness Test though, to find that the machine puts my fitness age at 39.

Don’t worry Mum,” consoled Bill. “At least it’s not your real age.”

No love. It’s one year below my real age. . .

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