Want to go home now. That was a phrase that was slightly over used today, by a certain little 2 year old.

To be fair, he wasn’t himself today. The coldy-coughy bug hadn’t quite left his system after all, which meant he woke, full of snot and self-pity, and maintained this woeful, melancholy state for the rest of the day.

Which was a shame, as we went to business partner’s daughters first birthday party today. Lovely do, lots of fun party games, oodles of exceedingly good cakes (as Kipling would say, though ironically, there were no cakes of this variety) and balloons and toys. Except DB1 seemed determined to not enjoy himself throughout the majority of the occasion, instead choosing to wander off to remote corners of the village hall and gaze mournfully at the door. And to then mutter ‘want to go home’ in the most reedy and poorly voice he could muster. Strangely enough though, he seemed to forget this desire when presented with crisps and cupcakes. And then remember it just in the nick of time, after he had avidly consumed them.

The baton of misery and determination to not enjoy was then passed on to DB2 on the way home. DB2 had quite obviously enjoyed himself, people-watching at the party (he’s a great one for observing the habits of others, I feel sure he’s storing it all up for some witty memoir.) But by home time, DB2 had clearly decided enough was enough. After a sleep that lasted all of about ten minutes, he decided rather abruptly that the car seat was no longer acceptable, and set about alerting us to this fact. In very loud and powerful decibels. For several minutes longer than he’d previously napped for.

We desperately pulled over at a Lidl supermarket, which used to be a petrol station, and which had absolutely nothing in stock to sort my thirst out, nor OH’s hunger (yes, after a substantial buffet lunch, OH was still hungry). This pause made DB2 incredibly merry. I could see it in his eyes, the triumph of having achieved his goal of Getting Out Of His Car Seat. I could see the self congratulatory glow behind them. ‘Yeesss!’ he was clearly shouting in his head. ‘DB2 1; Mummy and Daddy…nil.’

Imagine then, his horror and outrage when we bundled him unceremoniously back in his car seat and continued the homewards journey for another hour. Livid was not the word. Little fists were pummelled with great energy against the seat belt. Little feet kicked desperately at the back of the seat. And I think we all felt somewhat shellshocked after enduring nearly half an hour of continual bellowing and shrieking. Even me clambering into the back and desperately attempting to pacify him with nursery rhymes and Christmas carols didn’t really do the trick, until he eventually ran out of steam and promptly drifted off to sleep.

Poor DB1, by this point no doubt completely deafened as well as saturated with his own snot. We were not at all surprised when he weakly proclaimed that he wanted to ‘go to bed. In his bed.’

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