Do you ever have those days where you reach the end, and it seems you’ve achieved nothing? I’m having one of those days.
I’m guessing it has something to do with the world cashing in it’s “Balance” cheques. Last last night I tipped the scales heavily against me when I dared beat W at both Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble. In all fairness I thought I would get destroyed at Scrabble, but the combination of W having an entire rack of vowles, and the anagram section of my brain turning up fully staffed for the first time in my life signalled her doom. Who knew the anargam department is fuelled by Budweiser ?
This morning saw a running battle to tip the children from the house, and deliver them at their various “fun” destinations. Any parent reading this will know exactly what I’m talking about. I think perhaps the moment you check on the children’s progress getting dressed, and arrive at the top of the stairs in time to see a naked five year old wearing a cowboy hat roller skating between bedrooms sets a suitable precedent.
The rest of the day was filled with an endless stream of the incosequential, which I could impart with hilarity and ingenuity, but am choosing not to. There’s only so much that can be written about dropping kids off somewhere, fetching them again, being yapped at continually, eating lunch, telling Little Miss 7 that no, she can NOT (insert ridiculous request here), telling Little Miss 5 to stop telling tales for the thousandth time, or telling Miss 10 that if she doesn’t wash her hair today, Boggarts will start setting up home in it.
I’m exaggerating of course. The day was just “continual”. I think that’s a good word to describe it.
In W’s absence this evening, I pulled the ultimate “Dad” trick - a movie night accompanied by the things we don’t normally have in the cupboards - fizzy drinks, and toffee popcorn.
We watched “Bolt!” - I’m certain the younger children didn’t have a clue what was going on in the movie, but they ate a terrific amount of popcorn, and drank enough Sprite to sink several small ships.
After tucking them in this evening, Litte Miss 7 burst into tears.
“I Miss Mummy! I want Mummy to come home!”
Telling her not to be so silly didn’t work, so I pulled a complete masterstroke. I fetched a cat that had been peacefully sleeping on the eldest’s bunk bed, and asked her if she could look after it.
Instant cure.