Well, by the beard of Zeus, where do I start today? I doubt I’ll not be able to include it all without you crying tears of dismay and boredom, so I’ll try and keep this brief…for your sake.
It seems Posh, with my TLC and Beaks by her side is slowly making a slight recovery, she’s lost the use of her legs all of a sudden, she was fine one day, and the next, couldn’t walk. Now she takes great delight in displaying to me her latest abilities, she can stand up for a few seconds, and manges to drag herself around the garden. She wags her tail when she sees me, it’s the truth man! She is my new 5th child, and for the minute that nurturing babies void is filled…for the moment! So anyway, that’s Posh and Beak’s daily saga recounted. Although Beaks has been a little speedy and stunned all day after dipping his beak in to drink my coffee. He didn’t like it, for the record. Never serve Beaks coffee, he’ll go off his head, charge around the garden quacked up to the eyeballs on caffeine and looking violated.
It’s been mayhem here today chez us. What with one appointment/meeting, and all that entails, gone to and thus, been broken little bit by little bit by the French administrative system again, I finally have arrived at the ‘picking up kids from school’ time of day (although Esmie just goes 4 mornings) Now, after doing the end of day school run, which went as follows: stepping out bleary eyed from the car, coffee breath, kissy kissying the mummies I had not seen in the morning (you only kissy kissy the same person once a day, that’s the French rules), I limp over, carrying Esmie to collect the 3 older kids. I am limping because today, when I decided Spring cleaning the garage would be a good idea, an extremely heavy box of tools fell directly onto my ankle bone. It is swollen, red and purple, and just b****y hurts, if I’m honest. But 4 kids, successfully rounded up, I commence mummy chit chat, or more accurately mummy shit shat, as one mum has been dying to tell everyone else that her son has diarrhea again. Had we heard? Really? We reply, ‘no way?’ ‘oh nos’ are echoed as I give my latest child’s illness anecdote, Mitzi, another ear infection. Plenty more WTF were we doing having kids? banter flies around.
I realise the time, and trying out several names before getting the right child’s name, I start to sweep sweating forehead with school broom, as I nearly crack under the effort of finally rounding up the stray kids. Herding them through the carpark (think of my poor heart) towards our car. I think twice about following through with my experiment, which went as follows: hoy the kids one-by-one at car, to see if magic really works, and by sprinkling magic ‘flying through car doors, them landing directly in their seats, automatically strapping them in’ dust upon their heads first, silencing window between mummy driving and backseat kid noise raised automatically too, mummy is CHILL! Realising we do not live in Harry Potter land, I decide against this for health and safety reasons. And also, as we live in real life, so we bezz home. I quickly whip on blister plasters, footie training for Monty tonight, rugby training fro Alex. Alex draws the short straw and gets the bike.
|Mitzi and Lola|
To be fair, cycling down to drop Monty off balancing a small child on my head, one dangling off my ears, flapping around in the wind, another clinging on front ways like a baboon, the other on my back holding on for dear life, this did not appeal. Alex can take him there, but I’ll have to do the 8pm pick up with the girls, rugby finishes too late. He leaves to take Monty, late because we can not find the car keys. He has no choice, he takes the uninsured car (long story, but we are in the process of doing it, so no deliberate fault of our own is it not insured, although we are not using it) but he had to take it. 10 minutes later he’s back flying through the door like he is chasing himself bellowing something about ‘nearly got stopped for speeding in the uninsured car by the same police that pulled us over for our tyres on the other car' (which will be replaced tomorrow I have to add) 'I think I out drove them though!' (well, I think I hear this) ‘Monty’s SHIN PADS!’ ok, shin pads got, in the meantime luckily I have found the keys (40 minutes later behind a cushion down the side of the sofa (thanks Lola, she later admits to having ‘forgotten’ where she put them). They’re gone, he speedy gonzalis it out of the drive. He’s ages, and I think the police have got him again, but they didn’t! Whoo hoo! For small mercies and all that.
I do the 8pm pick up, get home and tear round, downing milk and stuffing hunks of dry bread to keep me going that bit longer-till they’re in their beds.
Esmie wants ‘mulk’ so I tell her she can get it out of the fridge, oh god, what have I done? There is a huge shriek and enormous crash, I run into the garage. The fridge door is off again, and Esmie is lying underneath it. She’s managed to pull off the fridge’s suicidal door. Not knowing whether ‘Flat Stanley’ is a real life syndrome, I wonder, momentarily, if we could make a fortune telling our story and selling books about our ‘Flat Esmie’. Anyway, no harm done, and they’re now in bed.
I am off to rock in my favourite corner, and hangout with my duckling. What? That’s totally normal behaviour.
Tamsyn x *whirl winds it out of the room as she realises she has not yet mopped, spins too fast and falls a*s* ove t*t *