You know it has not been a terrific day when the highlight of it is discovering a bit of melted chocolate on your pajama bottoms, and thinking ‘ooh lovely, I fancied that’, even though it potentially has been there for a few days. To be quite honest, I’m not even sure it was definitely chocolate. DB2 definitely wiped some fruity bar into my pyjamas about a week ago. And DB1, I’m fairly sure, ground up some half masticated malted milk biscuit into them quite recently too.
But yes, regardless of it’s origin, that was actually the best moment of my day, that brief little nibble of mouldering sweetness. Boo. Hoo.

Once again, DB2 opted for an ‘up BEFORE the larks’ approach this morning, heralding us from our beds at 4:30am with loud, raucous bellowing. Likewise DB1, who doesn’t like to be left out in these matters. So OH duly settled in to DB1s tiny junior bed, feet sticking out of the wee little Ikea duvet, and I bundled DB2 into bed with me, where he promptly made himself comfortable by a) lying virtually fully on my chest, b) driving his not insubstantial cranium into the underside of my chin, forcing me to awkwardly study the ceiling for the remainder of the morning and c) tuck his little hand down my bra. Typical bloke.

Needless to say, neither OH with his chilly toes and cramped limbs, or me, with my slightly dislocated neck and cold boob, got much more sleep. The boys did though. They were ok. And they woke up at 6:30, both perky as anything, and wondered why their parents were virtually comatose.

The morning was spent in a flurry of darting down to the Post Office, then attempting to work with my business partner whilst our combined three children set about destroying the house and everything within it. Needless to say, not much got done. DB1 then opted to have the mother of all tantrums over the prospect of going to nursery, which mainly consisted of lying on the floor and kicking me repeatedly whilst hollering ‘NOT GOING. NOT GOING. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME.’ And oh, the hideous realisation, whilst trying to scoop him up and put his shoes on, that he was absolutely right! As I watched his little indignantly twitching bottom hurtle up the stairs to hide in his room (still screaming ‘CAN’T MAKE ME, CAN’T MAKE ME’ as he went) that he actually had a point. Yes, it was true. I couldn’t actually even catch him, let alone get him in the car to go to nursery.

So, a bit of bribery later (the promise of two chocolates when he returned, plus dragging OH out of work for five minutes to escort DB1 to the door of the nursery) and we finally got there.

The tantrum that ensued in the evening made this earlier one look like a mere whisper of a protest though. Good lord. We’re not even quite sure what triggered it (though it was fairly obvious we had one little man out for revenge…how dare you try to send me somewhere with toys and books, mummy!) but I actually felt the need to build an air raid shelter afterwards, to go and cower in, such was the force of his rage. We had punches in the face (both of us), screeches in the face (both of us), refusals to get out the bath (he stayed there for about twenty minutes in the end, just randomly screeching every time I entered the room), refusal to put on pyjamas (maybe I should have bribed him with chocolate on his as well?), which in the end resulted with me losing my rag entirely and throwing the pyjamas across the room. I also managed to break the bedroom door by slamming it. (the handle fell off. Whoops.)

So now, we are watching England v France (on catch up of course…forcing the boys to watch it live might not have been the shrewdest idea) and only wine will cure the stress…and the dated and unidentifiable sweet mulch on my trouser leg. Happy days.

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