After yesterday’s 6.23am wakeup after a Very Late Night, the kids were sent to bed early, Because There Is School Tomorrow, and they all slept till past 8.00am.
Except, of course, Chippie, whom appears to have a very strong innate sense of when I am feeling like shite, not well and need a decent, deep sleep so I can stop being a bitchface cow to everyone, and/or when Grumpy needs to get up early for work. Nooooo, he woke three times between midnight and 5.30am, screaming. For fun. Not screaming because something was actually wrong. Just because he could.
(Yeah, kids do that, just no one will let you in on that little gem)
Then he slept till past 8.00am.
Thus the need to get things done quickly so we could leave on time lead to everything being done at half pace. Still, I wasn’t going to be late for school, and Chippie has still not begun to appreciate that when he carries on like a spoilt brat two year old, I actually don’t want him anywhere near me and childcare is a goer. Perhaps if he was less screamy and kicky, things might be different.
Ditch him, ditch the kids, arrive home and consider Ponyo.
He’s been kicking around, legless, obviously, with varying degrees of listlessness for a few days. It’s that problem whereby you can’t “bury him at sea” as the Grumpy Pants likes to hilariously comment, or in the garden as the kids would like, because he’s not dead.Yet.
You’d like to, because he’s clearly on the way out, and it seems inhumane, or infishmane if you prefer, to let him flounder (erm, pardon the pun) about like he is when he’s clearly dying.
The other side of that complex little coin is that what if he’s not actually dying, and comes good? And I’ve flushed him down the loo for nothing.
(We’ll not speak of