Yesterday I got thrown a curve ball. I hadn’t had the best night, amazingly not because of the boys (I’ve discovered that having chocolate before bed gives me nightmares…she says as she stuffs a bar of galaxy into her mouth).
Anyway, after a restless night, and a slightly early rise from Fatso (6am, I mean COME ON). I’d managed to go back to sleep after
shutting Fatty in his room with a dvd lovingly encouraging Larry to go back after his cup (YES CUP) of milk, and so was woken by the doorbell at 7.30am. I may have sworn. Used the F word. But after a persistent ringing I stumbled out of bed and looked out of the window onto the street below. I thought I saw a police car and instantly thought “oooh gossip!”
I went downstairs and opened the front door to discover a paramedic car and an ambulance in front of my house, suddenly not excited any more. My neighbour comes out and asks me to watch her boys while she goes with her baby to the hospital – she’d had a fit (the diagnosis btw was a febrile convulsion – the second child in our street in as many years to go to hospital because of this). Obviously I say yes, go inside, put a couple of hair grips in my wild morning hair, and pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I don’t even have time to do my face before my doorbell goes again. Two little boys who I’ve probably spent less than an hour with in total stand in front of me in my hall.
After shooing her off I plonk them into the sofa and go and collect my children. So let’s clarify where I am with this ok?
7.40am 4 children in my “day room” (aka kitchen, dining, living area).
1. 16 months
2. 28 months
3. 3.5 years
4. 7 years.
I hadn’t even had a cup of tea. I send an SOS to my friend.
After producing breakfast for all children, making a cup of tea, reassuring the 7 year old his little sister won’t die, yes he can sweep the floor up after the children if he likes (HE ASKED OK?!), and looking at the 2 year old thinking that face was a face of a head shaker (pooh), and ushering the children upstairs to The Beasts room. I realise that I have emptied and stacked the dishwasher, cleaned the counter and all was tidy.
Upstairs the kids played and gave me chance to wash and put on my make-up. My hair was still uncontrollable – no chance for a shower.
My AMAZING friend turns up with her daughter to find the children all playing happily upstairs, and me in the middle of cleaning the bathroom after putting a load of washing through.
We send her daughter upstairs, retrieve the two youngest, stick on CBeebies, and drink tea. I nip downstairs and quickly create a cottage pie.
While it’s cooking the 7 year old tells jokes to my friend (I think I need to work on my fake interested face, he could totally tell I didn’t care), we play a few games and I answer the multitude of questions fired at me from the tactless one (he’s not badly behaved at all, just 7).
- Why isn’t your TV as big as ours?
- Why doesn’t T have a DVD player in his room?
- Why is your hair spikey?
- We don’t have those biscuits at home
- Why can’t we play with the PS3?
- How does Matt get into your garage?
- What’s that mark on the carpet?
- Did you know there’s a cobweb up there?
During lunch I enjoy the pleasure of FIVE children eating my food. FIVE. No “I don’t like this”. All clean plates.
During the day, whilst I’ve dealt with a potty training toddler scared of the toilet, a climbing 7 year old, a fat baby crying because he can’t have his car, a 3 year old dressing up as Spiderman and another 3 year old pretending to be Ariel, I receive messages from Matthew asking how I’m getting on. When I’m fairly positive and upbeat about it all, I receive similar to the following.
I dreamily wonder as the children entertain themselves (I’m totally ignoring the crashing and the banging, I’ve removed the “craft” box and placed it out behind a locked door, and I know that no matter how messy the room is, I can put it back, there’s no need to hyperventilate) if next time I’ll get a pink one. I reckon we could do it, have more children, they could PLAY together.
Eventually my neighbour comes home and collects the boys.
I mention to Matthew that maybe we could have another.
He obviously has prepped The Beast, after an hour this morning of saying “Spiderman PLEASE get dressed for pre-school”, “Spiderman, put your pre-school clothes on” “THEO PUT YOUR CLOTHES ON” “THEODORE FOR THE LOVE OF GIN PUT YOUR BLOODY PRE-SCHOOL CLOTHES ON BEFORE I BEGIN TO COUNT”…I get the response “Oh mummy, all you had to do was ask you know”.
I’ve decided two is enough.