Or was it the Romans? Anyway, whoever had a god completely dedicated to the sole responsibility of looking after and copiously enjoying wine had it spot on.
I myself have been longingly fantasising about the glass of wine that I am presently quaffing (a very drinkable little NZ Sauvignon Blanc) since about 10:30 this morning. As the day has progressed, the urge to sneak my hand inside the fridge, extract the bottle in question and pour myself a glass, has been strong. In fact, come 5pm, I was all for dispensing with the glass and necking it directly from the bottle.
Why oh why is it always the way that the boys are about as hard work as they possibly can be when OH is away? Every time, without fail, they are nightmarishly tricky, the very moment that OH cheerily waves good bye, armed with his suitcase and all the merry optimism of someone who knows he’s about to get a guaranteed paid for meal in a restaurant, a nice hot bath and 10 hours uninterrupted kip. (moi, jealous? No. Never.)
DB1 began the trend by having the most immense whingeing fit this morning, at 6am. Even after thirteen hours, I’m still vaguely baffled as to what exactly he was whingeing about. Anyway, having him repeatedly whimpering and wailing in my left ear, while DB2 continually battered my right ear with one persistent and quite heavy-handed fist, was not the most relaxing start to the day. I begrudgingly gave up my snuggly warm spot in bed and trudged downstairs to try to silence them with food. It normally works. Oh how I treasure that blissful ten minutes at the dining room table, when everyone is too busy troughing down buttery toast and weetabix to bother making a sound. I even get to read a page of my magazine sometimes. (seriously, this is how I make my magazines last over three months.)
And it continued from there really. DB2 is going through some sort of crazy 9 month growth spurt at present, so all I heard from him today was a series of incredibly loud angst-riddled bellows, vaguely reminiscent of the hoarse and hearty full throated roar of a buffalo. All day. Literally every moment he was not being either cuddled or fed something.
Cuddling him all day would actually be quite a pleasant experience, however, DB1 was having none of DB2 even being cuddled for two minutes. Each cuddle generally generated an increasingly cunning method from DB1 of ensuring that he got some attention instead. My particular favourite was around 4pm this afternoon, whilst I was comforting DB2 on our bed, when DB1 got the hump big stylee, slunk off grumpily to his room, was eerily quiet for a few minutes, then announced (with intolerable glee) that he had ‘done a wee wee.’ Turns out the dear boy had gone to the effort of removing not only his trousers, but his nappy too, and then p*ssed all over his bedroom floor. I particularly enjoyed him trying to justify it by telling me he had been aiming for the ‘toilet’. Now, I know he’s only 2, but I’m fairly confident DB1 can tell the difference between our bathroom and his bedroom. Hmm.
To add to all this general fun and games, DB2 then waited until just a few minutes before bedtime before falling over (his favourite trick at present is trying to climb up anything in the near vicinity, particularly if it is hard, sharp or dangerous looking) and cracking his head against the sharp edge of the table leg. Cue lots of panicked Googling from me, checking symptoms of concussion and fretting about whether to put him to bed or keep him up. DB2 decided the matter for me in the end. He nodded off on my shoulder. Bless him. And his bruised little head.
Anyway. Back to that wine. It isn’t going to finish itself you know…