Weds 16 May 2012

It’s been a rollercoaster of a week and today’s been no different. I’m editing a post about cancer that I may still delete, yet. Especially because the whole long hand-wringy post boils down to “Lovely friends: stop getting it, ok?”  I was also going to make this post a reflective one, but sod it: here’s what happened, with no tarting around.

Mini Minx woke the entire house at 6.45am, complaining loudly about the stench wafting through from the litter tray that Foster Cat had missed. We could have all gone in a grump, but The Boss retrieved the morning by cooking up 2 frying pans of blueberry pancakes and having coffee on the table by the time I staggered down with an armful of Minx clothes. It took me so long because I had to wade through 20+ sheets of paper that Maxi and Midi had shredded into confetti-sized pieces. For fun. Which obscured the carpet and all the tiny, jaggy, ouchy toy-pieces they’d left there to ambush my bare feet.

Still, with happy, full tummies we got out the door to school 2 minutes early. Only to hit a blast of icy wind off the sea that caused 2 almost-instantaneous skin splits in my fingers (Met Office: “Feels like 0 degC” – you’re not kidding!). Then Foster Cat managed to escape out the front door while Maxi and Midi faffed around with who was “In Charge” of stopping him getting out. He’d follow the kids to school and get lost / run over. The neighbours must have been wetting themselves at me trying to grab that wily old cat; he would wait, calmly licking a paw while I feigned a nonchalent stroll up to him, then bounced off a millisecond before I grabbed him. So I ignored him and strode down the hill. He zig-zagged down. When we were twice the distance past the point where Killer Cat bottles it, hisses and scuttles off home, I realised he was going to follow us all the way to school. So I about-turned, marched back up the hill with 3 giggling minxes and a perplexed cat, back in the front door, swearing all the time, and invoked the dread weapons of the rattling packet of Go-Cat in one hand and the cat-nip mouse in the other. Safely trapped back in the house, I swept back down that stupid, pot-holed, hateful road again.

We made the bell and no more!

On the way back up that blasted hill, my day got lots better – the postman handed me a box with 18 packets of crisps in it: my runner’s-up prize for a wee review I wrote about a good kids’ day out.

Opening my emails, it got better still: Tesco baby magazine wanted to include a quote of mine in their Autumn edition, and could I supply a photo? Yesssss! Retribution against the minxes would be mine! My mum laughed long and hard at my teenage embarrassment at being snapped for the local newspaper naked on the beach aged 3 with my siblings. Similarly, I chose a very cheesy pic of my girls that would definitely induce future teenage cringe. Oh, I cannot wait!

After that, the trend was downward: Mini pooed her leggings, went ballistic at not being allowed to wear Big Girl Pants, bit Midi and spat at the cats. Midi stropped at being bored, sprayed every surface with water and smeared them with a wet, greasy, hairy rag she’d found lurking in a cupboard. Then in a fit of excitement she threw open the hall door and smashed Foster Cat’s food- and water-bowls against the wall – water everywhere. On already-rapidly-warping wood. Sheesh.

With Midi safely in nursery burning off some energy for a few hours, I went round a friend’s house for coffee, cake and to let Mini play with other children. I grabbed something to take with me and Mini cooed: “Ooooooo, treat! Chocolate treat!” See? I don’t stuff them full of rubbish food at all.

The playdate went well, but was over all too soon. When I realised that I’d just tried to put Mini’s jacket on myself, I figured it was time to put the car-keys down and step away from all machinery and sharp objects. And have another coffee.

Tea-time was the usual manic fluster of doing too many things at the same time. Right at the worst possible moment (ie the grill was still hot, dinner had just been put on the table, Foster Cat was scraping at the window on his hind-paws to get let in, Mini was on the rampage), Midi pulled her usual tea-time stunt. With a twist:

“I done a poooo!” she sang, proud of her latest otter. I helped her clean up and flushed. Then yelled as the water backed up and the poo looked like it was going to leap up and attack us. Maxi had blocked the toilet with her usual ‘use an entire roll to dab up a single drop of wee on the seat’ before Midi had used it. I stormed downstairs to find Mini picking out the grated carrot from her lamb pasta and spitting it at the cat. I could have screamed. I could have shouted. I could have sworn or smacked. Instead I strode to the cupboard and poured a glass of red wine and a biiiig block of cheap chocolate.

It helped 🙂

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