Yep. One of those days. Again. I often find myself using that phrase, actually. Today was pretty high up in the ‘how inutterably crap and irritating can your day be’ ratings though.
Started ok. Started really nicely actually. Pleasant little lie in, thanks to DB2 snoring his little head off until 7:15am. (I know, I know, when did 7:15 become a lie in? Depressing!) I managed to sustain a dozing state, despite DB1 kicking me repeatedly in the bottom and muttering something repeatedly about seagulls under his breath. It didn’t make a lot of sense, ergo, had no problem at all in completely ignoring it.
Things started to turn a little, shall we say, sour, when myself and the boys headed into town to get the passports sorted out. A little bit of background here first. At the weekend, we gleefully booked ourselves the first holiday abroad that we’ve had in five years. A week away in Ibiza. (OH and I actually taught DB1 the Vengaboys’ song…you know the one! And we sang it all the way home…’Hey! We’re going to Ibiza! Hey! Back to the island!’ etc etc. A classic. Ahem.)
However, the immediate pressing issue was that neither myself of either of my sons have passports. Hence a frantic flurry of photos being taken at Snappy Snaps on the Monday, and numerous forms being filled in and signed and countersigned and all that malarky. But, considering how busy OH and I are right now, the job was done with remarkable organisation and efficiency. Or so we thought.
Walked all the way into town to the main post office, and sat down with a large and fairly formidable looking lady to go through the process they like to call ‘check and sign’. Basically, for those not familiar with this, they glance over your documents for about 5 minutes or so, then charge you £8.95 a form for the privilege. Now, this might be my imagination. I am prepared to accept that it is. But I felt that the post lady seemed a little bit triumphant when she alerted me to the fact that our passport forms had been rejected, due to a lack of birth certificates for the boys. (It might have had something to do with the way she trilled the word ‘rejected’ with such a cheerful demeanour that did it…)
‘But it doesn’t say anywhere about needing birth certificates!’ I exclaimed. It doesn’t! Honestly!
‘Oh, I assure you it does.’ she replied emphatically, nodding her chins in what appeared to be slight delight at my dismay.
I knew it didn’t, but couldn’t be arsed to pursue the argument, as she looked the sort who would just continually and childishly keep assuring me that it did, until it was time for the office to close.
I phoned OH, hoping against hope that he would be charitable and offer to drive down to the post office to drop the birth certificates off to me. No such luck. So off I ran, at approximately 90mph, in the pouring rain, up a steep hill, hefting about 4 stones worth of children, buggies and buggy boards in front of me (and the sodding buggy board is broken, so it dragged along the pavement the ENTIRE way) for half an hour to get home. Then had to run all the way back again. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been as soaked in all my life. I looked like someone had dunked me into a bath. DB1 and DB2 were fine. Rain covers and anoraks for them. But, in true form, I had completely forgotten about any form of protection from the elements for myself. Grrrr.
This insane amount of exercise during the morning did not set me up well for the rest of the day. Nor DB1, sadly, if his monumentous tantrum in Morrissons in the afternoon was anything to go by. We had the full histrionics; hurling himself around with wild abandon in the trolley, screeching like a tortured cockatoo, wailing like a stricken soap opera star, over the fact that I’d taken the pot of fennel seeds off of him, due to him dropping them four times in a row and nearly smashing the bottle. I actually just wanted to collapse on the floor then and there.
This beautiful day was topped off to perfection when we got home, and I realised DB2 had done a revolting poo in his nappy. Anyone who has a one year old is well familiar I am sure with the sinking feeling that accompanies the realisation that their offspring has defecated in their nappy. As generally, this results in desperately trying to pin them to the change mat and wipe their wriggling bottoms, while they frantically try every which method to roll away from you and spread poo all over the surrounding vicinity. This, however, wasn’t the part I was going to moan about. No, writhing infants smearing poo over the carpet is fairly standard in a day, and thus not really worth the mention.
What I will moan about though, is DB2 then picking up his toy drum and tw*tting me with full force with it, right in my face. It made a really mocking ‘DOOOING’ noise as it crushed my nose too, which made me that much more livid about it all. I reeeeally wanted to shout at him, but he looked so impishly delighted at the loud noise and at my discomfort that actually I was just rendered speechless. Not to mention the fact that my nose actually felt broken at this point. By the time I’d recovered myself and regained the power of speech, he’d deftly legged it, giggling hysterically as he wobbled off down the hallway.
An image of the offending weapon.
One final question – as I am now ploughing on with work and trying to put the annoyingness of today behind me…does anyone know anyone who supplies organic fabric in the UK? We are frantically trying to source some super soft and lovely organic cotton for our new range of pyjamas, but can I find anyone decent? Can I heck! It’s very exciting though, none the less. So there you go, day ended on a high note. Ha!