The One In Which Littleboy1 Gets Stitches

Poor Littleboy1.

Seriously, poor Littleboy1.

His foot had to have stitches the other day, bless him.

It all started when I accidentally (well, I say I... really I mean Jasper, but I feel the need to blame myself for taking my eyes off the dog for a split-second. Big mistake there) knocked a mug onto the floor, which then smashed into about a million pieces...

So the other day, I was making dinner after I'd brought Littleboy1 home from school (I like to give him his tea fairly early as he's always complaining he's starving, despite having a two-course meal at school, and I hate it when he moans, I can't get an ounce of peace), and I'd brought my mug out to make myself a cup of tea (the moaning had already started and I needed a pick-me-up).

Unfortunately, I'd picked the wrong day to cook bacon, as this was the day Hubby neglected to walk Jasper while I made the tea, so I had to do it myself after I'd served Littleboy1.

Jasper came running in, barking and holding a paw up to the stove.

"Away, Jasper," I said, frantically batting him away. "Go outside for a minute."

Did he obey? Of course not.

Littleboy1 came running out, hearing all the commotion. "What's happening Mummy?"

"Nothing, honey, I'm just making your tea. Take Jasper outside for a bit, he keeps trying to eat your food."

Littleboy1 came over and gripped onto Jasper's collar, trying to pull him, failing miserably.

"No, don't pull him, just call him out," I said, one hand on the frying pan and the other ready to swat at whoever came near it.

So Littleboy1 ran to the back door and opened it. "Jasper! Jasper! Jasper!"

Jasper looked up but made no effort to follow the calls. Instead he got a little overexcited, and so he promptly knocked my mug onto the floor with a shatter of pottery.

"JASPER!" I shrieked. Well, that was my favourite mug gone.

"What Mummy?" Littleboy1 came rushing in, as he'd gone to find his ball when he'd seen Jasper make no attempt to follow him outside.

"Don't step there!" I warned, which of course made him step there (what is it with children and automatically doing the opposite of your orders?), causing him to stand, full-frontal, onto the mess.

"OUCH!" he kept screaming, hopping round the room.

Oh, God. "JOSEPH!" I was shouting, and wouldn't stop shouting until Hubby came out of his stupid office and came to see why I was screaming that awful, weird scream.

Almost immediately Hubby had strapped him in the car and we were all off to the A & E before even getting the chance to have a look at his sole.

When we arrived at the hospital I was really scared. What if it was infected? Tons of thoughts were racing through my mind and I couldn't take it.

About 10 minutes into our waiting, a nurse came out and took Littleboy1 into her room. Hubby went with him, whereas I stayed outside with Littleboy2, worried out of my mind.

"Everything will be fine," I kept muttering to Littleboy2, rocking his pram, "everything will be ju-u-u-ust fine, right?"

Littleboy2 just stared up at me, confused.

So was I, in a way.

I didn't know what the hell was going on. I kept texting Hubby, but his phone must have been off. Why?? Why?? Why couldn't he contact me??

About 2 hours after we'd arrived, Littleboy1 and Hubby came out, limping (Littleboy1, not Hubby, though he will be when I get hold of him) and holding onto his daddy.

"Baby!" I practically screamed, lifting him into my arms. "What happened? Why were you gone so long? I was so worried!"

Hubby received a slap and then said, "he had to have some stitches."

My eyes then bulged out of my head. "WHAT? And you didn't think to tell me, call me, TEXT ME??" I was so angry.

"We didn't want to worry you, Faye. We knew it would all be okay, just a couple of stitches because the pottery had sliced the foot. No infections, no stray pot lodged somewhere, it was all checked."

I looked at Littleboy1. "And he was brave, yes?"

"Very. He didn't even need to hold my hand like you do."

I rolled my eyes but cuddled Littleboy1 close. My brave little boy.

My brave, brave little boy.

The One In Which I Wash My Hair With Sick

So, Littleboy1 has had his first week (well, 3 days) at primary school now, and he's enjoyed every second.

"Mummy, when is school?" he asks pretty much every hour on the hour.

"After the weekend, honey," I always reply, trying to get on with the housework but failing.

Littleboy1 ponders this for a few moments before replying with "soon?"

With a desperate sigh I nod as I dust the cobwebs that linger around behind the microwave and shuddering when I see a small spider (sometimes with the company of a daddy long-legs or a small bluebottle). What? I'm tidy. Most of the time.

Yesterday, since Littleboy1 seemed really down about not going to school for 2 whole days, Hubby and I decided we'd treat him to a day out at his favourite park and afterwards get him an ice cream from the van that hangs around outside the gates.

With Littleboy2 in his stroller and Littleboy1 hanging onto Hubby's hand, we stopped outside the van.

"What would you like, son?" Hubby asked him, jingling his change in his trouser pocket.

Littleboy1 stared blankly at the list and photos of the available ice creams/lollies.

Randomly, he picked a blackcurrant Ribena push-up ice lolly.

"A Ribena push-up lolly please," Hubby said, taking his money out and fingering the coins.

The man took one out of his freezers and placed it on the counter as Hubby placed the coins into his hand. The man grinned and put it away.

Hubby handed the lolly to Littleboy1 and he eagerly took the seal off, needing a little help pushing it up. He then attacked it with his mouth until it was all gone, and emerged from the lolly with a purple tongue, purple lips and juice all around his mouth.

"I'm guessing you liked that then," I said, opening the gate to the play area and pushing the pram in. Littleboy2 was sleeping soundly, so I just sat on the bench, rocking the pram back and forth.

"Yeah!" Littleboy1 said, jumping up and down.

"Good. Now, go and have a nice little play and we'll get dinner on the way home."

Hubby sat beside me as Littleboy1 raced over to the slide, clambering up like a monkey would a tree. He waved at the top and slid down on his belly quickly, laughing loudly as he went.

It made me smile, seeing him have so much fun. He then played on the climbing frame, the swings, the roundabout, and the slide again.

He then came over, asking me to tie his shoelaces for him.

"Rock Littleboy2," I told Hubby as I stood up and knelt down, a shoelace in each hand.

"Do you want a double bow?" I asked, and he nodded, acting as if he knew what the heck a double bow was.

I tied one shoe successfully, and moved onto the next. Suddenly, before I knew what was happening, I felt liquid melt through my hair and drip down the back of my neck and my forehead.

"What the hell?" I muttered, standing up after tying the other shoelaces.

Hubby burst out laughing, confirming my fears. "What the hell has happened to me?"

Littleboy1 had his hand over his mouth, and Hubby couldn't talk for laughing.

"Mummy... I was sick."

CRAP.

"On my head?" I asked, trying to be calm when really I wanted to run around the park screaming and shouting and crying.

"Yes... sorry Mummy. I am sorry."

I wasn't mad at Littleboy1, of course. I was just mad that God had to punish me for something or other by causing his sickness the minute before I got up.

"It's okay, darling, it's not your fault," I said, too scared to put my finger on my head even though it was starting to itch as the sick sunk into my scalp (don't worry, I haven't got any pictures).

Littleboy1 wiped his mouth and held my hand afterwards. "Let's go home, Mummy. You need clean."

I nodded and gave Hubby the evils as he sniggered, pushing the pram.

When we got home, cleaned Littleboy1 up and got my hair washed, rinsed, washed again, rinsed, washed a third time, rinsed, and dried, I was just too tired to move.

I just sat down on the sofa and watched The X Factor (I was too tired to change the channel, the remote was on the other sofa), continuously smelling my hair, which thankfully now smelled like tangerines.

Littleboy1 was in bed, but came downstairs and sat beside me. "Mummy."

"Yeah?"

"I didn't like today. At all."

Oh, good. Wasn't just me, then.

The One In Which Littleboy1 Starts School

Well, he did it. He did it. All by himself, he did it. My little boy started big school.

He loved nursery. It was only for half a day, and so he'd come home for lunch and play in the afternoon after a morning of playing and learning and having fun in nursery.

This morning, I woke Littleboy1 up at 7am. For nursery, it would be 8, as there wouldn't be much preparation - all I'd need to do was dress him and then I'd just take him, but today I had to do lots more. I woke him up, and after about 10 minutes of arguing, he finally gave in and went downstairs for his breakfast. Although he kept insisting on pancakes, I finally persuaded him to have the coco pops I'd placed in front of him on the table.

"Mummy, I'm scared," he said as I helped him with his tie and helped him fasten his shoes (he didn't quite get the hang of Velcro).

"Why? You've been excited all week."

"I'm scared now Mummy!"

I sighed. Oh, no. This was the part I was dreading. I knew his great feelings were too good to be true - should have expected it.

"Don't be, darling," I said. "You just feel nervous. It's just like nursery, but with a bit more learning and a little longer. Your friends will be there!"

Littleboy1's face lit up. I think he honestly thought he'd be either all alone, or thrown into a classroom full of strangers who'd possibly (I don't really know what goes on in that imaginative mind) be pelting him with rock-hard crayons and sharp pencils.

"My friends?"

"Yes, your friends."

He suddenly leaped in the air and sung (what I think was) the Teletubbies theme tune while finding his backpack and practically yanking the front door off it's hinges. At least I now know that if I ever want him to do something he won't do, I only have to utter the word 'friends'. Bonus!

The day was quite a bore. I didn't have Littleboy1 or Hubby around to help me tend to Littleboy2's every needs. Sure, he's my responsibility, but I just wanted a break. He cries every minute, and his cot is upstairs, while my television fix is downstairs. That, my friends, means I have to run upstairs, on average, 60 times per hour, and so about 360 times before I had to gather my car keys (and my screaming baby) to pick Littleboy1 up from his first day.

When I got to the school, the bell rung. I was just in time - that's good. He won't be coming out of the doors to find nobody but strangers - I'd be there, as well as the huge pram. He'll recognise me, I think to myself.

The doors open (right on time - I had my watch with me) and piles of kids flood out onto the already almost full playground, making the whole place a sea of laughing and chatting kids and parents.

"Mummy!" Littleboy1 shouts as he races towards me at high speed.

I open my arms and embrace him as he flies into my arms, backpack in one hand, some sort of macaroni creation in the other.

"What's this, then?" I asked as I juggled his new reading folder and spelling record.

"Pasta art," he said, adding this creation to my collection of random things in my arms.

"It's lovely," I said, truthfully. It was certainly something - a skew-whiff attempt at a cardboard box, with random drawings scrawled onto it with permanent marker in a variety of colours, with various pasta types stuck onto it with both Pritt-stick and Sellotape. If I'm right, it contains macaroni, short straw-looking pieces of spaghetti and a bit of penne. Beautiful!

Seriously, I do love it. I love it so much it is on my window ledge as I write, and I keep looking at it (mainly for the fact I'm trying to figure out what it is...) - it is certainly wonderful.

And I promise I won't eat it. No matter how hungry I am.

The One In Which We Prepare For Primary School

Littleboy1 starts primary school on Wednesday, and I tell you, he couldn't be more ready.

He has his little, newly-polished school shoes lined up in the hallway, placed next to his new Manchester United backpack, which contains his pencil case, folders and his juice bottle which will be filled with orange juice on Wednesday morning. There is a space in his bag for his matching Manchester United lunch-box, and I have all he needs in either the fridge (ham for his sandwiches), freezer (frozen yoghurts which will have melted by the time lunchtime arrives) or cupboards (biscuits, jam).

I'm really confident about this. Most parents will be nervous, worried, thinking 'how will s/he do away from home for 6 whole hours?', seeing as though nursery is only a 3-hour thing, but I think he'll be fine. He doesn't seem the sort that would suddenly break down, the sort that is frail about these things. Knowing him, he'll actually want to stay come home-time, and not race out of the doors, arms wide, ready to embrace me.

The other day, when Littleboy1 was playing with his Lego pieces and making a random, non-colour-coordinated castle, I went to ask him how he was feeling about being away from home for so long.

"I don't care," he said simply and plaintively, clearly wanting me to clear off and let him build his castle in peace.

"That's good," I replied.

"Yes. Good. Bye Mummy."

Charming.

The One In Which I Catch A Cold

Bit of a boring title, really, but then again, so is this cold.

I’ve been stuck in bed for the past few days, box of tissues by my side and used ones by the other.

Hubby daren’t come in in case he catches something, so I’m all alone in this pit of misery.

Littleboy1 tried coming in earlier, with a ice-cold lemonade (not really what I need, but still, it’s sweet), but Hubby pulled him out as soon as he set foot in the room.

It’s as though I’m diseased.

I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Jasper since I developed this mild bout, but I suppose that’s a good thing, seeing as though I don’t want his hairs up my nose to make this worse.

For breakfast this morning, Hubby brought me breakfast in bed (how sweet…), wearing a doctor’s mask.

“Take that stupid thing off,” I said as I held the tray. A get well soon card was placed next to my toast from Littleboy1 - handmade.

It says:

Mummy get well soon please love Littleboy1 x x x x x x x x x x x x

I placed it on the window ledge so that I could stare at it, reminded of his love for me.

Hubby kissed my forehead (still with the mask on) and left me alone.

This is going to be a nice week…

The One In Which I Finally Show My Face After The Incident

After a couple of days of hiding behind the sofa with the curtains closed and the door locked and bolted, I finally decided to show my face outside the house of the damned.

I wrapped myself in a dark coat, borrowed Littleboy1’s top-hat from his magic set (it was a little tight, but it was good enough) and made off.

It was as if the Pink Panther theme was playing as I edged out of the driveway, on my knees, practically crawling.

“HIYA!” Suzy screamed, waving ferociously from the other side of the road. “FINALLY RECOVERED?”

She burst into giggles and so I got up and ran. I didn’t know what I was meant to be doing on this little revelation. Was I going to knock on all my neighbours’ doors and say “Hiya, I’ve finally decided to show my face after my dog made my name a mockery. Anything to say to that?” or was I just going to walk around, waving at everyone and spitting upon the route I’d travelled on my stomach?

As I entered the field, a woman walking her own greyhound practically collapsed with laughter, imitating my own incident.

Oh please. That greyhound couldn't drag you across the field if it tried, I thought, staring at her beer gut as she passed.

I finally gave up and turned round, trudging back to my not-so-humble abode.

“Where’ve you been?” Hubby asked as soon as I entered the house.

“Out.”

I then noticed his expression.

“What, can’t I just go out for a walk without there being a specific reason?”

Hubby didn’t even have to think. “Well, no. And what in the world are you wearing?”

He pulled the top-hat off my head (forgot about that…maybe that was the reason I got so many weird stares) and gave it to Littleboy1 who was passing through.

“Daddy, why was Mummy wearing my special magic hat?”

“I have no idea,” was his reply, and he took Littleboy1 outside to play some football.

Jasper seemed to know I was after him, so was hiding somewhere…

The One In Which Jasper Embarrasses Me

Yesterday, I decided to take Jasper for a walk. Hubby was the one who took him every day and night, before he went to work and when he’d got back - he didn’t complain.

But yesterday, I decided I’d have a go - how hard could it be, walking him over the fields?

“Are you sure?” Hubby sniggered, when I’d told him.

“What do you mean?” I replied, attaching Jasper’s lead onto his collar.

Hubby couldn’t talk for laughing, so I just ignored him and left, oblivious to what was in store for me.

I walked him up the road, and opened the gate leading onto the fields, closing it behind me.

As we walked, I saw a figure in the distance, with a tiny little figure running along beside it.

As we neared them both, I noticed it was my friend Suzy and her little Yorkie, Jack.

“Hi, Faye!” Suzy said, coming to a halt beside us. “And, hello Jasper!”

I replied with a ‘hello’ whereas Jasper greeted her with a swift lick to her palm.

Jasper, enjoying the company, was showing off, leaping around in circles and dancing on the grass.

Suzy was laughing her head off, Jack looking a bit terrified of the huge greyhound leaping around before him.

Suddenly, without any warning or second thoughts, Jasper raced off, dragging me along behind him. I’d seen this in funny movies, but never thought it’d ever happen to me!

He raced along the whole field, showing off his speed, while I was racing through the grass, screaming and yelling, “stop, Jasper! STOP!”

I could faintly hear the hysterical giggles coming from Suzy behind me, even as we got further and further away.

Thanks Jasper. I’ll never live it down.

The One In Which I Adopt A Greyhound

We did it. We actually did it. We adopted a dog.

The process was quite hard - I’ll spare you of all the boring details. The long and short of it is, we adopted a greyhound (so a big, big, big thanks to notSupermum - I’d never have been able to do it without your help - I wouldn’t know where to start) and called him Jasper.

Littleboy1 has fallen in love with him. While Hubby and I went to do all the boring stuff, I left the children at home with my mum.

When we eventually came home, armed with dog, Littleboy1 raced (no pun intended) to the door, wrapping his arms around Jasper (God knows what he was named after - Littleboy1 felt it suited him…) and showering him with kisses.

“I love Jasper, I love Jasper, I love Jasper,” he kept repeating, until we were able to chant it with him all in unison.

Jasper seemed at ease almost straightaway - he seemed to adore Littleboy1, and was following him around the house all day.

It got so bad that Littleboy1 even insisted that Jasper joined us for dinner. “No, darling,” I said. “Jasper can’t eat tea with us at the table. He has his own little place over there.”

I pointed to his bowl.

Littleboy1 promptly picked up his plate, put it down on the kitchen floor next to Jasper and his bowl, kneeled down and started to eat.

I didn’t stop him.

Before you call social services to report me on being a bad mother, in my defence, I was too busy dying of laughter to do anything about it.

I have a feeling Jasper is going to like our family.

The One In Which I Consider a Dog

I’ve always wanted a pet. Ever since I was yay-high I wanted a dog, a cat, a hamster, a tortoise, anything. But my parents were quite strict. My dad had allergies, so I couldn’t have a cat or a dog. My mum hated rodents, so I couldn’t have a guinea pig or a hamster. That only left a few options, and my parents didn’t like them, so I couldn’t even have a budgie or a parrot.

Since I never had the chance, I forgot all about having one when I moved in with Hubby, and had my Littleboys.

But today, those memories came back with just one question from Littleboy1’s lips.

“Mummy, can we have a pet?”

It all flooded back to me. The protests, the pleas, the tears, the shouts, and the sneezes.

I had to think about it for a moment. What if I didn’t want one anymore? I’d been so hopeful all those years, and what if it wasn’t meant to be? But I didn’t want to deprive Littleboy1 of a pet, not after what I went through.

“What kind of pet?” I asked, hoping a sensible answer would follow.

“A dog!”

I mentally wiped my brow and smiled. I said yes without thinking. Hubby was still at work - he didn’t have allergies, did he? He didn’t show any signs during hay-fever seasons, and when he saw dogs in the street he’d grin and cuddle them, however big, small or furry they were.

Littleboy1 happily started to dance around the kitchen, singing a song from one of his Cbeebies programmes.

Oh, great. Now I have to get him a dog.

The One In Which I Hand In My Complaint Letter

Okay, so maybe I haven’t actually screwed up with the whole letter - I’d say I handled it quite well. I let all my informality drain away from my body, and I suddenly became my mother. That’s a screw-up in itself.

I borrowed one of Hubby’s fancy business fountain pens, and, after spending about half an hour figuring out how to change the empty ink cartridge (thanks a lot, Hubs), I was finally able to use it properly.

I started off by writing the date and all that crap neatly, cursing out loud whenever I smudged, and so had to blot with tissues (I was saving those for my soppy romance movies - Starbucks shall pay for that too, I’ll make sure of it) multiple times before getting into the swing of things.

Thankfully, I had no interruptions from Littleboy1, or else he was in danger of getting stabbed with a sharp pen.

After I’d written the whole letter (which took me about two hours, as I had to look up every single word on the formality dictionary, in fear of coming across as someone from MTV Cribs), I neatly folded it in half and sealed it in one of my posh envelopes, which I usually use to jot down my shopping list on occasion.

“Done it yet?” Hubby asked, hovering over me like a bee, obviously waiting for his pen back.

“Yes, I have, so here’s your precious weapon back,” I said, giving him back the pen and watching him scurry off lovingly to do some of his paperwork or whatever.

I put the letter in a very safe place (okay, fine, sort of safe place. My bra wasn’t a good contender at this time), up in one of the cupboards out of Littleboy1’s reach (I didn’t feel doodles of stickmen being stabbed with blue carrots was the perfect solution to solving this issue - then again, maybe they’d actually pay me, if I threatened to stab them with colourful and sharp vegetables…).

Fine, I’ll admit it. I forgot about it for a couple of days. Maybe it’d have been even longer if I hadn’t desperately required the cheese grater for Littleboy1 (he wanted cheese on toast, and I was too stressed to say no). That’s when I found the bloody letter.

My screams could be heard in the whole neighbourhood, so much so that Hubby even came running (and that’s when you know you’ve screamed loudly).

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and I could see the pain in his eyes, the pain that was dragging him away from his work (God knows why he’s so in love with it all).

“I. Forgot. All. About. The. Starbucks. Letter.”

Hubby raised his eyebrows lazily. “Let’s call the police shall we?” was his sarcastic remark.

“Police? Police? What police? Why police? When police? How police? Where police?” Littleboy1 had transformed into a budgerigar.

This is my everyday life.

After running all the way down to Starbucks (I felt that if I drove I could ‘accidentally’ lose control and kill myself) I panicked.

What do I do here? Do I just go inside and give it to the person behind the counter? Do I ask for the manager and give it to him?!

So, I went inside. So far so good, I thought. There wasn’t a big queue, so I just, slowly, walked forwards. When the man in front of me had just got his coffee, I was scared shitless. What if it happened again? I wasn’t wearing very gripping shoes - bad move. I gingerly stepped forward, rubbing my foot ferociously against the tiles for signs of liquid. I then realised I looked like a psychopath, and so stopped and smiled.

The woman behind the counter retreated in horror a bit, and so I just thrust the envelope at her.

“W-What’s this?” she asked, warily touching it as if it were a bomb.

“It’s a letter for the manager,” I said, confidently (where did that come from?), “and I’d appreciate it if you gave it to him straight away. It’s urgent.”

I then turned my back on her and walked out, my dignity intact, my head high, and walked straight home.

I will now wait for my vouchers.

The One In Which I Embarrass Myself In A Coffee Shop

I write to you now in a coffee shop (Starbucks to be precise). I only came here because a) I wanted to get away from the Littleboys for a bit of peace by dropping them off at their Grandma’s and b) I needed a drink, as I was gasping.

I don’t know if I’ll ever want to show my face in this Starbucks ever again though, as I kind of embarrassed myself in the queue.

It wasn’t my fault. It was the staff’s - they didn’t feel it was necessary to place a ‘Wet Floor’ sign on the ground. Don’t ask me why.

The person in front of me left with his Tall Latte and as I moved forward, purse in hand, my feet just suddenly gave way above the wet circumstance, and I found myself crashing to the ground in a whirl of both embarrassment and slight pain (I think my huge - but obviously necessary - bag broke my fall).

I must say, nobody was thrusting themselves forward to come to my rescue, which I found even more embarrassing and rude. One man was staring at me, making no attempt to get up from his comfy seat, putting his Americano at stake.

When I managed to get up (by myself - no hands were offered), I tried to act like nothing happened.

I heard a few sniggers coming from behind me, but shook them off (much like the dust I’d gathered on my shorts).

I just nonchalantly ordered my drink and when I’d paid, turned around.

“Be careful now,” the Starbucks man said, and I actually heard a slight dance in his tone.

I ought to sue.

The One In Which I Review The Sleepover

As soon as I stopped pulling my hair out and crying hysterically, I finally came to terms with the fact that in a few short hours I would be hosting (alone - Hubby was away on a business trip) a sleepover.

“What food does Jake like?” was the first question I asked, getting up from the table unsteadily and feeling faint.

“He likes pizza.”

Of course. Why waste my breath?

“What kind of pizza?”

“Tesco pizza.”

I could see I was getting nowhere here, so I just strapped both the Littleboys in the car and drove down to Tesco.

I didn’t want to risk anything, so I bought pepperoni, cheese & tomato and ham & pineapple. I also bought a few bottles of blackcurrant fruit-shoots in case he didn’t like the fresh orange juice we had at home in the fridge.

As soon as we got home (accompanied by a few Tesco bags), I unloaded everything into cupboards and into the fridge.

“What else does Jake like, Littleboy1? Does he like Calippo ice-lollies?”

Littleboy1 just shrugged and went back to his room to play with his Lego towers.

As I said in my previous post, thanks Littleboy1. He’s such a big help, isn’t he? He makes me so proud…

At 5:30 on the dot the doorbell rang, and so I quickly adjusted my hair (I don’t know why, I must have assumed she’d have changed her mind if she saw me with rat’s tails).

“Hi there!” she beamed, dressed in a really posh suit even though it was the holidays.

“Hello. And hello, Jake!”

Jake just waved and ran past me to find Littleboy1. Polite, huh?

“Sorry about that,” the woman said, the smile never even leaving her face. “He’s excited, is all.”

I just smiled.

“I’ll pick him up tomorrow after breakfast then?”

“Yeah, that’ll be fine. Goodbye.”

“Bye!”

I shut the door as soon as I could. Good grief.

After tea (I realised Jake liked the pepperoni pizza), I had a bit of quiet time to myself as I’d already set up the Z-bed in Littleboy1’s room. They were both playing with Littleboy1’s toy cars, ambulances and police vans. How two children can find such enjoyment out of plastic good-for-nothing cars I’ll never know.

Littleboy2 only disrupted me once, wailing for his nappy to be changed, and then he slept like a baby (hmm, bad choice of words there).

At about 9pm (I’d been generous - I hope Littleboy1 doesn’t think this is going to be a regular thing) I checked on the boys to make sure they were in their pyjamas and in bed.

Far from it.

They were both fully-clothed (including muddy shoes from playing football outside in the back garden earlier), chatting loud as anything, and bouncing on Littleboy1’s bed.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

Oops. I didn’t mean for Incredible Hulk to come out of his shell, it just happened as quick as a flash.

“Littleboy1, off your bed right now. You know you’re not allowed to bounce on the bed, especially with mucky shoes on!”

“Sorry Mummy…”

“Now, I want you in your pyjamas and in bed by the time I come back - 5 minutes.”

I turned and walked out of the door, pretty pleased that I could control two 4 year old boys.

I rewarded myself with a nice cake. A lovely, creamy, chocolaty Éclair. Yummy.

I went back to check on the boys when I’d finished every last bite (it may have taken a bit longer than 5 minutes - I wanted to savour each bite as Hubby limits me to 1 cake per day as I am watching my weight here).

Luckily, they were in bed, clothes strewn all over the carpet, shoes beside their bed in pairs.

“Good boys,” I said. “Now, get some sleep, because little boys need lots of sleep.”

I don’t know where that came from. I think I was trying to threaten them in some way, but it kind of backfired slightly.

I turned off the light and closed the door. I then went up to bed because I was very tired after that stressful day. Seriously - I was so tired that as soon as I lay down on my pillow I was fast asleep…

The next morning was pretty ordinary. Jake chose Weetabix (the healthy option) whereas Littleboy1 chose Coco Pops (the not-so-healthy option).

I just had some black coffee (I always need black coffee in my mornings otherwise I don’t know what to do) and a breakfast bar.

I think Jake’s mum is a bit psychic. Honestly! As soon as I put the kids’ bowls in the sink the doorbell rang. Spooky or what?!

I don’t think I’ll be having Jake round for a while, or anybody for that matter. I just need a rest, which I think will be fairly impossible this Summer…

My First Post (a.k.a. The One In Which I Doubtfully Organise A Sleepover)

I’ve never been a fan of sleepovers. Just hearing the word makes me shudder. Whenever I used to be invited to sleepovers I’d try and avoid them, make up excuses like “I’ve got a family occasion tonight, sorry” and “I’m staying at my Grandparents’ tonight…”. I don’t know what it was about them that I didn’t like, but for some reason I just detested the idea of sleeping at somebody else’s house, in their room, in their Z-beds, and eating their cereal from their bowls in the morning.

So when Littleboy1 came running up to me (who was sipping white wine on the sun-lounger on the outside porch, having the time and peace of her life) waving the phone in my face, I panicked slightly. I wasn’t expecting any phone calls, and if it was from my mother then Littleboy1 would have known to tell her I was out or asleep with a migraine.

“Who is it?” I mimed, placing my glass down hesitantly.

Littleboy1 shrugged and thrust the receiver at me. Thanks a lot, Littleboy1. You’re a great help, aren’t you?

“Hello?” I said, holding the phone against my ear. I was mentally crossing my fingers that my mother’s voice would not bounce through my ear and down into my brain where it would then settle and ring inside my head for a couple of hours, torturing me…

But it wasn’t.

“Hi!”

The reply was a happy, peppy, perky voice, possibly almost fake.

“This is Julie,” she proceeded. “I am Littleboy1’s friend Jake’s mum. Apparently you said Jake can come round for a sleepover tonight? Littleboy1 told Jake you’d allowed it.”

This was news to me. I glared at Littleboy1 with eyes that read ‘You lying little twit’.

“Of course, if today is a bad time, we could always arrange it for another night?”

This woman was acting as though she was the organiser of this little shin-dig, which pissed me off a bit.

“Uh…no, today is fine.”

I surprised myself a little there. I should have told her I actually knew nothing about this, but that would more or less ruin Littleboy1’s reputation, and categorize him as a ‘Liar’ and that’s all he needed, starting big school…

“Oh, perfect!” came the shrill reply, almost straightaway. “Should Jake have his tea at home or are you willing to cook him up a little something?”

What the hell was this, a charity event? Willing to cook him something. Did she think I was Satan?

“I wouldn’t mind cooking tea for Jake too,” I replied through gritted teeth. I already hated this woman.

“That’s wonderful! What time is best for you? We usually sit down at the table round about 5.”

I didn’t really want to know what her schedules were. Who does this woman think she is?

“Is half 5 okay?” I said.

“That’s absolutely divine! Littleboy1 wrote down your address on a sticky note, so we’ll be round there no problem. I’ll see you then!”

Then she hung up.

I felt like strangling Littleboy1 at that moment for getting me into this mess.

“Why did you lie to Jake, Littleboy1?” I asked, going inside the house and pouring my wine down the sink (I know, I know, good alcohol gone to waste, but I really felt I had lost my wine-related appetite).

“Sorry, Mummy, but I really want a sleepover!”

I sighed. It wasn’t really Littleboy1’s fault, I suppose. It’s mine for letting it all happen. Then again, I have someone else to blame.

The wine.