I was going to post a bit of a serious post tonight…but three things have changed that;
1) I am not feeling brave enough. It’s a tricky subject.
2) A friend of mine asked me earlier whether I had something upbeat in store for a blog this week because she needed a cheer up. Previous planned blog would not do this.
3) It has been a reeeaaaallly long 36 hours and “serious blog stuff” could push me over my dieting edge in to a big fat bar of Dairy Milk and a big bottle of wine. Both heavily in stock in my house. I have 10 Dairy Milk’s in the cupboard – not binge eating habits, but OTT Great Aunt gift habit of
“Oh you like Dairy Milk do you? Here are 2 thousands bars for you”.
And as for bottle of wines, I have four in my wine rack. Not drink binge habits but brilliant offer at Tescos of 25% off 6 bottles. Yes you did the maths right. 2 have been drunk already. But not this week.
It started yesterday when I lovingly bought the boys new toys because they were being oh-so-sweet-and-good (for 2 hours straight. Pavlov’s dogs at Psychology degree level taught me REWARD THEM QUICKLY). Within minutes Alex was telling me his was “broken”, by which he means “Some of it has gone in an orrifice it shouldn’t have”. He points to his mouth and starts pulling a face. The siren on the police bike has vanished. The siren in my head starts going off.
The rule’s are;
- If it is for eating and is food, it goes up the nose. “The Kiss” may have to be performed. Hold their good object-free nostril, put your mouth over theirs and HUFF. I have performed the kiss 3 times in as many weeks.
- If it is for playing with, it gets eaten. Toys, glo-stick juice, anti-bacterial spray (FYI – don’t think you are being sensible by “trying to see what happens when you swallow the item after the kid has. If it is indeed poisonous *crosses fingers it isn’t*, you will keel over just like they will).
A trip to the Doctor confirmed my fears – I would have to sift through baby turd. It was like that scene from Jurassic Park with the Triceratops.
As for my day today…It started at 6.45am when I got out of bed on one of those rare mornings where it is without the alarm clock of a moaning child, but by choice and went for a cycle…in the rain. I must be mad…or a bit chubby and in desperate need of shifting some lb’s. And with no option but to go out then, because an evening exercise is not an option this evening as husband is wining and dining clients.
Cycling in to a wall of wind and rain has it’s benefits. A car to whizzed past me and SPLADOOOOSHED through a mountainous pile of horse turd which burst all over the road in front of me. It missed me. By a margin. But my margin or by mile, it didn’t matter, I came out cleeeeaaaaan as a whistle. But horse poo is rife around my village *shakes fist at village* and smug that I had missed the Trotters Trots, I whizzed down a hill and rode straight in to wodge of horse poo which had effectively been acting as a dam through the nights heavy rain. It exploded. I was no longer smug.
I got home to find the kids still asleep. At 7.40am. Are they kidding me?! I shower and flop in to bed. My wing man leaves for work. I am Han Solo until after bedtime. I close my eyes. And am woken from dozing by my trusty moaning morning alarm clock. I bring Alex in to bed with me and pretend to doze…but watch him with one eye as he posts Teddy Blue through the slats in the headboard. Teddy Blue lands with a thud where he will lay all day getting eaten by dust bunnies. My husband was indignant that this happened every morning, much to my refusal to believe Alex would be so cruel. He knows how much his father loves that bear. He knows how much his FATHER loves a TEDDY. As much as he loved Teddy Blue, Smudge said, he did realise he was not actually real (*crossed his fingers behind his back*) and couldn’t actually walk and base jump behind the bed and Alex must therefore be the one on attempted Teddy Tedslaughter charges. I had given Alex the benefit of the doubt. Not him, not Alex. Turns out, yes. Yes Alex. *sigh*
Poor Teddy Blue.
I want my benefit-of-the-doubt back, little baby. Little Baby laughs manically, pushes my nipple right in to my boob, shouts
and backwards belly flops off the bed, chuntering to himself, top of head only visible to me as he runs round the base of the bed and towards the door.
I stay at home with the boys every day. I love it. But I have an excellent wingman who comes home at 6.30pm and as he walks through the door I will often walk out of it, already kitted up in cycling or running gear. He puts the kids in the bath and then to bed. Because by that point, after 12 hours, I have pretty much reached my limit.
Today and tomorrow I have no shift change, no half hour “lunch break” at 6.30pm. I am Han Solo. And I know the only way to get through the day with limited shouting is to FILL THE DAY WITH AS MANY ACTIVITIES AS POSSIBLE.
We have Messy-Played, we have recycled and seen Dustbin lorries, we have been on a bus TWICE, we have riden our bikes and posted letters (IN THE RAIN) and splashed in muddy puddles, we have baked cakes and made a running track in our lounge out of cushions (from the lounge and playroom and bedrooms).
Single mums who stay at home, I take my hat off to you. I really really do.
This happened. About 6pm. When I was on a knife edge. But I smiled, took a photo, tweeted it under the caption
“no point crying over it”