Two more birthday parties yesterday, leaving me to deal with lollied up kids and a tired, grumpy husband.
(As opposed to just a grumpy one)
Early bed was the goal, but, alas, second party was a family one, so the late finishing time was inevitable, really.
And the trauma of a late night shower for children was also on the cards, yet we survived it with little blood, and minimal tantrums (by me).
Eventually piled them into bed, got out of reading stories and they were up at 6.15 this morning!
That is just not acceptable behaviour.
Grumpy slept in, then got himself organised to go to work.
Perfect timing as per normal. Godzilla was in fine form.
His Oscar winning performance mode.
This, combined with his four year old grasp of the English language, does not bode well with a tired Mummy.
We had WeetBix issues again.
“My milk is melting” he sobs.
What the fuck? Its liquid. If it was any more melted it would be evaporating.
“Um. I’m not really sure what you’re talking about”
This, for a four year old, is apparently the worst thing you can say. His crying became more hysterical, his pitch higher and his “My milk is melting” more frantic.
I still couldn’t work out the problem.
So, I just took his breakky off him and poured myself another coffee.
After dramatically throwing himself to the floor, distraught heroine-like, then running from the room with his hands over his face, sobbing (and Mummy logging onto the official Oscars website to see when and how she could nominate him for next years Awards), he eventually returned, retreived his bowl of cereal and sat at the table.
His bottom lip trembled, tears rolled down his face and he screamed “The milk is gone. The weetbix ate my milk. The-er’s no-ot eno-ough mi-i-ilk in my we-e-et b-i-i-x”
Yeah, well, there’s not enough vodka in mine!