Sunday, 24 July 2016

Poo-mageddon: the end of the world as I know it

I have poo in my hair. I have POO in my HAIR! And it isn't even my own poo, not that that would necessarily mean an improvement in my situation.

There is also poo on the floor, on the bath, on Little O's hands, his legs, and guess what, a small amount on the actual bloody potty.

This was not the plan. This was not supposed to happen. And somewhere in the midst of this carnage, my brain is trying to fathom whether I can call this progress. But before you call for the men in white coats, please let me provide some context.

Little O isn't potty trained yet. Despite me putting it off and putting it off, it's something both S and I know we need to get onto.

Thursday, 21 July 2016

What do I do all day? Drink wine and watch telly, of course... (laughs hysterically)

It is morning and the boys are awake, therefore I am awake. I suffer from some sort of cave-woman instinct that means if I can hear them, I can't go to sleep. I think its purpose is to make sure they don't run out of the cave unobserved and get mowed down by a Stegasaurus.

My first task is to get them both dressed. Then, after breakfast, I help Little O build a tunnel for his Grandpa Pig train. I'm just placing - err, I mean, helping Little O place the last brick, when I realise I'm still in pyjamas, I smell like Cheerios, and we need to leave for his class in twenty minutes. So with superhuman speed I get washed, dressed, slap some blush on, and change two lots of nappies.

I pack Baby R's emergency milk and Little O's drink into the changing bag. Upon my suggestion that shoes should be donned, Little O decides wellies are a suitable alternative and conducts a fire-fighting rescue mission around his chair in the kitchen, spreading breadcrumbs of mud in his wake. I bundle Baby R into his car seat, pressing his musical toy to distract him from straining to watch his big brother. Some brief toddler-wrangling ensues and somehow I manage to get everyone and everything into the car.

Sunday, 10 July 2016

5 Things I Hate About You

5 Things I Hate About You

I hate the way you make me cry.
My makeup runs, but I know why.
The pride within swells up, and so
I guess it's that which makes me glow.

I hate the fact I get no sleep,
I lie awake with thoughts that keep
Me worrying that you're OK.
Yet you're sound asleep, a world away.

I hate the fact I cannot drink,
It makes me stop and sigh and think:
I have to be up, there's just no point
And the parenting job should be joint.
Fair's fair I guess, and anyway,
Morning's the best time of the day.

Thursday, 7 July 2016

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the bedroom...

Little O transitioned from a cot to a proper bed surprisingly well, back in September. However, he's currently suffering from a bout of separation anxiety. This means bedtime is now a combination of a battle of wills and playing the waiting game until he falls asleep. Even if that's half past eight, nine o'clock, or quarter to bloody ten.

I'm unsure whether anything has caused this sudden sleep regression or not. It only started a couple of weeks ago so I'm loath to think it has anything to do with the arrival of Baby R. He could be experiencing a developmental leap, or just simply being a giant pain in the ass. Who knows. All I do know is that this isn't the first time and probably won't be the last, so all S and I can do is weather this phase until it passes. That's what my sensible, rational head is saying, anyway.

My knackered, and frankly ravenous, head is reminding me that it's nine o'clock, I haven't eaten for five hours and there's a Papa Johns with my name on it just waiting for my call.