Oh sweet baby Jesus. One day of trials and tribulations I can deal with, but when it extends past the 24 hour mark, then I start to object a little bit.

Yesterday was a veritable banquet of tantrums, demandings, screamings and inconsolable howlings. And that was just from me. By the time OH had walked through the door, I felt as though I’d suddenly completely bypassed my 30th birthday and decided to opt for my 50th instead. I could almost feel the fresh grey hairs poking their way through my scalp.

But, tomorrow is another day, I thought.

Yes, that is true. However, what that little catechism doesn’t acknowledge is that it is entirely possible to have the same day replicated all over again.

We got off to a wonderful start when we all peered out of the window this morning to see that the high winds had not only ripped down two more fence panels, but had also uprooted our one and only tree. At this rate, we won’t actually have any separation from our neighbours at all. Lucky we get on with them really. I don’t relish the prospect of next doors massive dog leaping all over the flower beds, but there isn’t much that can be done about that. The dog will be thrilled. He’s now got clear, unadulterated access to three gardens in a row.

I noticed with some irony when looking out of DB1s window that, yes, the only garden with any major damage from the winds was ours. Fairly typical, that. Always ours. The other gardens, not a flower bent out of shape. Ours? Looked as though a tornado had ripped through it.

The day then continued on a similar vein. I needed to go to the doctors about my suspected anaemia. OH actually had to accompany me to ensure i did actually go, such is my deep seated loathing of doctors. With true comedy timing, DB2 did a massive dump just as I was due to go in, though thankfully it didn’t leak all over his clothes, which tends to be the norm when I’ve forgotten to bring out a change of outfit for him. The doctor was typically scathing about my symptoms, informing me that the strange bruises covering my legs were simply me ‘walking into things and forgetting I’d done it’. That’ll explain why I’ve a) had them all my life and b) currently have a purple bruise the size of my hand on my knee then. Easy to forget, those bruises as big as your hand. You get hit by a sledgehammer, next thing you know, it’s slipped your mind. You fall off a multi storey car park, soon forgotten in the heat of the moment. Apparently my extreme exhaustion was simply ‘not getting enough sleep’, which then begs the question, if I’m going to bed at 9pm each night and waking at 7am, how many f***ing hours do I need? And the fact that lots of my relatives are also anaemic? Just one of those things apparently. Of course.

(this is why I loathe doctors).

However, to get rid of me, he sent me upstairs to have a blood test. Which was predictably evil. I often wonder whether they really need three massive test tubes of the stuff to perform one routine check. Do they? Or does the doctor secretly send a message up with the request, saying something along the lines of ‘this one is a mithering time waster, give her hell, take as much blood as we can legally pass on to the blood banks without her suing us…’

Afterwards, OH went off to work, taking the car with him. (which in the light of how the day progressed, was a shame.) I trundled towards toddler group. Barely five minutes down the road (just after OH had gleefully driven past us, tooting the horn merrily…just to rub it in, in his snug, warm car) the heavens opened, unleashing a huge hailstorm upon us. Remarkably, DB2 slept through it, despite hailstones as large as acorns bashing him in the face, until I finally managed to drag the raincover over him. DB1 wasn’t quite so lucky. We sprinted to the nearest shelter, which happened to be a bus stop, and sat there shivering. I tried not to swear as DB2s rain cover blew backwards in the wind and covered me in freezing water.

Trying not to swear was actually a theme of the rest of the day. I tried not to swear when trying to talk to my business partner, and DB1 decided to lob a toy in my face. Not a small toy either. A house. A hard, plastic house.

I tried not to swear when, after no less than seven attempts and over an hour of trying, I finally gave up and carried DB2 back downstairs, away from his cot. He wasn’t going to sleep. Not a chance. He was tired. Yes. Very tired. But not going to sleep. To be fair to him, it was somewhat hard to devote time to helping him sleep with DB1 yelling and making a fuss downstairs…

So very very tired…

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