Mental Thursday. Wagons, roll.

Woody gazes sadly at the other toys as they descend in to the firey melting pit of hell. Mr and Mrs Potato Head are holding hands, about to become crispy chips…

“It’s ok mummy” says the 3 year old next to me, squeezing my hand and wiping away my tears.


“Mummy, it’s ok, you know?”. He pats my arm.

I sniff and let out an “oh god”

“UGH! IT IS OK MUMMY!” he shouts.

Everyone has their limits I suppose. But I am not made of stone. The toys almost died…

*makes a mental note. Buy pregnancy test*

Maundy Thursday? Try Mental Thursday. The whole house went crazy for 24 hours. The new website was going barmy with dozens of hits every few minutes, Woody almost became Flacid in a pit of melting rubbish, and Alex gave himself a prison tattoo of a snake.

We hope it is not a sign of things to come. But we can’t be sure.

And the emotional rollercoaster of a night didn’t end there. My husband spent the night under a blanket in a room that stank of sick. I spent the night with a younger man in my bed and got kicked in the head repeatedly.

Crazy Party Pad? No. Alex was acting like he had been a crazy party pad and had taken a load of party drugs. He was swinging from estcasy to sheer rage and screaming fits to passing out in a dribbly puddle with his bum in the air. *makes mental note. Don’t buy pregnancy test. Stay in denial. You can’t cope with another child*.

And Ed threw chunks. A lot of them. At some point in the early hours I wiped my nose on a tissue, which had child vomit on it. Some had accidently splashed back from the loo on to the loo roll, it would seem, and I rubbed my nose with it. I was so tired, I just decided to pretend it hadn’t happened…

But because we are selfish and it is EASTER and had made plans to go on another cross country trip to spend the weekend tormenting other people, we got up the next day, baby-wiped the sick out of Ed’s hair, bent a screaming, flailing Alex at the waist with our knees and strapped them into their car seats anyway. A squirt of air freshner in Ed’s direction and we were away!

“Where’s the pink mixing bowl?” asks husband, as we crawled along along the M4.

“The one we used for Ed to be sick in last night? In the bin.” I say, checking my face for more dried vomit.

“In the bin?” he asks “In the bin?!” He repeats. “Just wash it!”

There are 2 things wrong with this statement.

1) Implying I will wash it! No no no! I have been reading my Caitlan Moran and am up to date with my feminism and over use of exclamation marks!

2) The contents of someones stomach lining have been in that mixing bowl. I am not going to use it to whip up a batch of bloody fairy cakes in it now, am I?

“mmmm, nice cakes. Did you experiment with some parmesan cheese in them?”

We have been in the car for a mere 20 minutes and have just driven past Ed’s friends Jacks house who he sees most weekends. Note at this point, we do not live in Devon or anywhere near it.

“Are we in Devon yet, mummy?” says Ed. He repeats this, in various forms (“mmm can I see Devon yet mummy?” “Mummy? Is this Devon?”) until I pass out from banging my head repeatedly on the dashboard.

Alex entertained himself on the journey by doing this –

Bored in the car? Then stick a ham sandwich up your nose of course!

“UGH. What’s wrong with him?” asks husband, taking some chewing gum off the back of his hand and popping it back in his mouth. I stare at him.

“What?” he says “I was just storing it whilst I ate my hula hoops.”

I am so hot for him right now.

We engaged in a bit of Wee Wee Roulette.

“I need a wee” says Ed from the backseat.

I look at husband who is driving. He chews his lip and raises an eyebrow at me. Whilst we don’t want to risk a urine infection we equally don’t want to risk hitting heavy Good Friday traffic. Easter motorway traffic is total chuff. Sat Nav is already saying our ETA to our destination is the next Christian Festival. Christmas.

“We are almost there Ed!” I shrill. Lies. We only just got on the M4. “Raisens anyone? Mmmm raisens!” as I break out in to a made up song about raisens.

By Bristol we had to reveal our trump card. The Bob the Builder talking CD. Every parent has a children’s story CD which is their nemisis. If I scramble for tissues in the glove box and the CD case accidently falls out, it makes me what to go all Michael Douglas in “Fallen”. It is the last resort of motorway travel entertainment. It comes after pointless time filling discussions such as “would you rather one big roll of stomach fat or lots of little rolls of fat? Like  some steps?” and “Do you like to pop your chud, like this *pop* or just chew it normally?”. It comes after starting a row, just because we are bored. And when it goes on it goes on in surround sound, because Ed sits in the back reciting it word for word. Word. For. Word.

Husband and I try to make it bearable by making it as rude and vulgar as we possibly can. When Wendy says she has a hard hat for Majory, we look at each other and race to see who can mutter “I’ve got a hard on for you Marjory” the fastest. When Bob calls Marjory “Marge” instead of “Marjory” we burst in to improvisation acting and do snogging noises on the backs of our hands. And worse. *snigger*. But our disgusting violation of Bob is getting louder and louder…

And every bloody time we hit the inevitable Bob point, we look at each other and go;

“We should order a new set of Car CD stories”.

Every. Bloody. Time.










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