A Whole Lotta Love!

Ah, love.

It’s rife in our house at the moment. Much more of it and I may just very well explode as a result of the sheer abundance of it …

I awoke this morning, very tired. As is to be expected. Given that the Sleep Prevention Squad have moved back in with their snoring and complaints about being kicked in the back.

I made several, serious attempts to drag myself out of bed. I even ignored the voices in my head, screaming “Don’t make me get up!”. But I kept flopping back in again.


If I don’t get up myself, I will never get my coffee. The overarching incentive. The MUG of coffee.

“Where are you going?”

“Get coffee.”

“Oooh, can you bring mine back to bed.”

“No. Not my job. Need coffee.”

“What is your job?!”

“Right now, I’m an incubator. And I’m very, very tired.”

“An incubator is just a warm box with a light on. You’ll be right.”

“Hmm, thanks.”

Of course, the love and empathy continued …. apparently my light is only on sometimes, and my box is pretty hot when it wants to be.

Thanks, that made me feel so much better.

So, along with MUG, I locked myself (Ok, didn’t lock, I can’t close the door due to the crap infront of it) in my office and set about tidying it.

All the while, Brotherly Love was in full swing in the form of wrestles, “Don’t touch that’s”, “You’re not listening to me and doing what I SAY’s”, and wooden trains launched at heads.

That lasted several hours before there were tears. Ok, it lasted several micro-seconds before there were tears, but hours before there were real tears.

And blood.

I race out, Godzilla runs up to me, lip bleeding and advising me he was “kicked in da mouf”.

(Daddy was “otherwise occupied”, despite being onlyl 2 foot from the scene!)

I look questioningly at Monkey Boy. He replied …. very Simpsonesque …

“He did it. It’s his fault. He jumped on me. I just lifted me knee up when he jumped on me and he ran into me. It’s not my fault.”

I gave Mokey Boy another sort of look.

An ice-cube later, Godzilla was up, running around, laughing and chasing Monkey Boy, who promptly ran down the stairs onto the lawn, kicking his toe on the bluestone garden edging.

(Of course, my suggsetions that running around in a pyjama top and undies went completely unheeded)

He stopped. Looked at me. Held his toe and hopped around a bit. Looked down. Looked up again and said “Um, there’s blood.”

“Ha ha,” says Godzilla, pointing at his brother. “You learn a less-on!” and ran away.

Ah, yes, a whole lotta love!

Course, it didn’t stop there either. I sit Monkey Boy on the sink to wash his toe, reach into the way overhead cupboard to reach the bandaids, only to have a precariously placed torch fall forward, knocking boxes of bandaids, bottles of children’s Panadol and medicine measuring cups onto me. I’m standing, hands up, preventing an avalanche of first aid supplies from landing on my head, yelling loudly “COME HERE AND HELP ME NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Hang on!” comes Grumpy’s reply.

From 2 foot behind me ….

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