By 5 o’clock today this is the situation:
The sitting room is a sea of primary colours: blocks, bikes and books, dollys and drums, playmats and prams. I’m afraid to put tinyelf down on her mat in case I can’t find her again.
The back garden is strewn with discarded shoes, balls, sippy cups and buckets. All are the result of crazypixie, a two year old and a six year old having great fun.
Cat food scattered over the kitchen floor (this find provided crazypixie with a little pre-breakfast snack). The kitchen counter top ares piled high with vegetable peelings and dishes that, surprisingly, don’t wash themselves.
Tinyelf is actually sitting happy in her bouncer chair, but is wearing a suspiciously fresh set of clothing and smelling faintly of baby vomit.
Crazypixie is overtired, sore from teething and not impressed that dinner isn’t ready yet.
Like tinyelf, I also smell of baby vomit (slightly less faintly unfortunately) and after undressing in the kitchen I’m now wearing a tracksuit pants that is so unflattering that it must go in the next charity bag and a t-shirt that used to fit perfectly before breastfeeding boobs took over my chest but now is struggling to cover my midriff (classy bird, me).
I’m trying to put on rice for the dinner, while diverting crazypixies attention from her little sister, who she is patting a little too enthusiastically. This involves letting her rifle through the cupboards while I sing Old McDonald with thoroughly faked enthusiasm.
In walks himself, after a long day at the office.
He takes one look at me and what does he say?
‘You look lovely.’
And he meant it!
I think I’ll keep him.
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