Mummy sick came out of my bum

On Sunday evening I was rushing around at 6.50pm, trying to do a few last minute jobs before choir practice at 7pm (that's right, folks, choir practice. I am a member of a chamber choir - the Pro Scholar Musica). The lad sauntered into the living room minus his pyjama bottoms. "Mummy, sick came out of my bum".
Barely looking up I replied "darling, please don't say shit, I've told you that word is just for adults."
"No mummy, SICK came out of my bum". This got my attention and I followed him into the toilet. Peering into the bowl my shoulders sagged. Indeed, I understood why my son had described the pale brown lake as sick. More disheartening than the troubled state of my son's bowels though was what the beige custard was coating. The little twins are obsessed with all things toilet so we try to operate a strict 'closed door' policy for bathrooms. They had capitalized on a window of opportunity when a door had been left open by shoving as many toys as they could into the loo. There were pools and puddles of bum sick over everything. Fifteen minutes and half a bottle of disinfectant later and I was warbling in church. I hope I get into heaven.

Cry Me A River

The little twins are 19 months old. At birth they rated about average on the crying scale. They have progressed to having some of the most frequently used tear ducts in the southern hemisphere. For the first 7 or 8 months I could let the sound of dual screaming wash over me whilst plodding on the with the required tasks in the correct order (make food, shovel food in, wipe up excess, undress screamers, soak in bath, lather in 'no tears' shampoo, laugh at the irony, notice that my laughter is drowned out by warbling twins and so on and so forth). At 15 months old my patience was starting to be stretched. At 19 months I can barely string a coherent thought together. Sometimes I feel like my brain merely functions to be irritated by the sounds of crying or try to stay calm despite the crying. Soon the very last shred of patience will dissolve into my own screaming.

I'm writing this on a Friday night, drinking a glass of wine and watching old episodes of Sex And The City. The silence is gorgeous.

Lad

Enter the new man. Let's not make any bones here. He is still as wilfull, cheeky and cocksure as he ever was but there is a whole new 'lad' about him too. The last year has been a battle. The preceding hour of each meal and bath was enough to feel like your heart had been replaced with lead and that your endeavours would yield a higher success rate if you had attempted to climb Mount Cook backwards in the dark. 'No' was his favourite word and I felt like my parenting was turning him into a Dark Lord.

Luckily it seems he has tired of/grown out of this behaviour. He is now the kind of person who bounds to the table with the first call of 'dinner's ready' and is earnestly teaching his little sisters to carry their empty plates to the sink. He stops at each road to wait for me before crossing and plays generously with his mates. I love his ability to stand up for himself in an articulate, inquisitive manner.

As of this week the little twins will be starting at nursery for a couple of afternoons per week. I asked the lad what he would like to do with me. Come Thursday we'll be slurping hot chocolates and watching planes take off and land at our local airport. I can't wait.

freedom

going to the pub on a Friday night with husband and chums
breakfast in a cafe on Saturday morning with the husband
SATC2 on Saturday evening
walking on the beach with the husband
reading English Grazia on the sofa
sleeping for 12 straight hours

That's right, a whole weekend without my children. My lovely, saint like Aunt and her generous husband offered to have the 3 of them for the weekend. We just picked up the happy little sunbeams this afternoon after an utterly relaxing two days. I couldn't be more grateful

TimeGod

Time takes on a different form when the whole package of 24 doesn't belong to you and you alone. It started when the lad was born but is much more noticeable now with the twins thrown into the mix. When the babies were little tinies the Time God held out his hand and gave me twins who slept all the time they weren't feeding. With the other hand he snatched back a good chunk of the day by making feeding time last nearly 2 hours. How I used to long for the day when I wouldn't be pinned to the sofa by milk addicts. A few months later a clever girl showed me how to balance a bottle of milk on a teddy sitting on each twin's chest. I could have wept in gratitude. Cha-Ching! A few more precious hours. As they became more adept at holding their own bottles I was able to wander off and do a few jobs. Perfect. The Time God then woke from his reverie, sniffed at my relative freedom and made sure those little twins needed their mother to spend a significant portion of her day settling them into high chairs and spooning tiny spoonful after tiny spoonful of carefully steamed and pureed vegetables into their mouths. The rigidity of their needs has driven me a bit nuts over the last year. When they get to about 3 years old then spontaneity happily trickles back in. We'll be pootling off to the beach at 6pm armed with sausages and bread in the late afternoon heat of summer, eating roast dinners all together surrounded by friends as hoards of children make dens in the garden and race down the drive on their bikes.

Both twin1 and twin2 are now up on their feet and walking all over the place. It seems to have brought their 'twinness' to the fore. I get such a kick out of seeing their beautiful little curly tops bobbing round after each other. Although they come from the same egg and so should be perfectly identical, their faces are quite different. Trying to differentiate them from behind though is another matter entirely. It's a good job they are so adorable looking as their screaming, scrappy fights for attention are reaching fever pitch. This very morning I spoke to a lovely girl who would make the perfect au pair for us. She's not available until August though and I fear the husband and I may have been sectioned by then. The search continues.