There's really only one way to describe it

A reasonable day, once I got over the morning thing.

The kids were at school, how bad could it be?

Pickup and off to gymnastics, remembering snacks, gymnastics uniform, balls, drawing stuff, changes of clothes, drink bottles, nappies, spare nappies, bum wipes, face wipes, hand wipes, mobile phone, diary, baby toys, 6 year old boy toys, extra jumpers and jackets, books, more play stuff. Etc …


Get home, cook dinner whilst eldest two, who are extremely tired and just starving play some kind of Harry Potter meets Star Wars game at the tops of their voices. Dinner cooked and I get them to focus; one to set the table, the other to get the plates out so I can serve dinner.

Which, of course, means one follows the other up the hall casting VERY LOUD spells, and the other falls backwards up the stairs, bashing his heal in the process. Of course, the other was the drama queen one, so the screams permeated the eardrums of every neighbour in a 5km radius and I had to say things like “Well, if you two weren’t being bloody idiots and did what I asked you to do, then no one would have got hurt, would then? Huh?”

I hate it when I’m forced to say things like that.

Once food was placed in front of them, they shut up. Hard to talk while they’re stuffing their faces. Actually, its the only thing they really concentrate on.

I turn my back for mere seconds and when I turn back, Monkey Boy has rubbed Chippie’s hair with his chicken bones, then placed them all in Chippie’s plate. Because he can. I get them in the bath and order him to wash Chippie’s hair, which he does by pouring a huge cup of water of Chippie’s head. Then wiping it with a face washer.

I restrain myself from holding his head under. It was close, but I managed it.

Get them out after 986 requests, another 1028 requests gets them dressed in their jarmies.

Sometimes, I love my kids. And other times, they’re just shitheads.

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