Saturday, 10 November 2012

Incorrigible

Last Monday, my husband began working weeks in Manchester doing things with wires at the new ITV studios. Apparently his flat overlooks the new Coronation St studios which may be exciting for some but I am inCorrigible. I would rather he was overlooking me while I sleep soundly during the night watches that are characterised by screaming, shouting and nonsensical talking with occasional bouts of walking around and crashing into things - no not me, the small children, actually me as well to be truthful. He, bless him, gets to sleep all night if he wants to, though he says he misses us dreadfully. I don't think he actually misses us between 11pm and 7pm though, call me dreadful, but I wouldn't miss any of us during those hours as I would be asleep, not even 'perchance to dream', just mouth-a-gape (with witless wonder) conked. There's the rub.

This week I didn't shower for 3 days. Golly she must reek like an over ripe hippy I hear you think. No actually, amazing what a hasty yet thorough wash can achieve. Why, people have coped down the fruity centuries! Yes the water was on, but so were the kids, full on. When I did finally make it into the shower - I planned it so that the three year old would be in nursery and I would just have to deal with my one year old (who follows me every where and will not be left alone for two minutes, not even for a loo visit) things became feral. As soon as I got in, now beastie, one year old, tugged the shower curtain near off as I struggled to remain deft footed standing in the slippy bathtub under water that was too cold. Then he tried to climb in after me, but I fended him off. When that failed, he began launching missiles into the tub - plastic tugboat, rubber duckie ( a high throw - I ducked) a bra and finally most of the loo roll. Two minutes later,  and possibly even days later, it was worth it, even though I went through L'orea-hell to get there. I even managed to shampoo my hair during the last of the loo roll wars.

Come to think of it, I think I may have worn the same clothes for 3 days too - those ones over there dancing at the peak of clothes mountain in my bedroom - was that a flashback? - no, I am hallucinating from tiredness. I really must get another wash on - the clothes this time.

Every night this week, both children have ended up in both senses in my bed - think toes in my ear and a small body draped across my head like a right royal Philip Treacy creation. As dwelt upon earlier, and as per my obsession, sleep has been staccato, interrupted, like an uzi firing, by teething induced cries from the one year old and protest shouts from the three year old: "When is Daddy coming home?" In five sleeps, I reply. "I want him to come in five minutes." So do I, I reply.  This week we have all relied a bit too heavily on the square babysitter. Thank you Mr Tumble, you soothe our tiny minds.






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