Last week was kind of interesting. My youngest, William, had an absolute ripper. It was one of those weeks where you realise that your alcohol dependence is just something you should gratefully accept rather than fight against and thank the lord that some kind soul thought of McDonalds, because you are tired of having your carefully created, nutritionally balanced meals hurled across the kitchen by your three little angels who are hell bent on developing scurvy, rickets and all other types of diseases that come from malnutrition. I once had a doctor tell me that a child will not deliberately starve themselves to death. He did not mention the fact that they will happily live off two minute noodles for 7 years, by which time you have developed nervous tic every time you enter the kitchen to prepare dinner. To all those out there who declare that they have no trouble with fussy eaters and "you just need to make children realise that they will get nothing else until they eat what is put in front of them" I say GET STUFFED!!!! We had a week of Will deciding that he wanted nothing but strawberries and sultanas (resulting in the world falling out of his bottom) and my other son deciding he could not eat anything if the different food groups were touching (resulting in me wanting to shove something sharp up him). God give me strength. Will then had a little accident at creche, which resulted in him getting 3 stitches in his head. Apparently it was someone's birthday at creche and there was cake for afternoon tea. Will was so excited by this prospect that he ran towards the bathroom to wash his hands, missed the door and smacked straight into the wall. I can totally sympathise with him - I get pretty excited about cake for afternoon tea too. So, off to the doctor and after a fun hour of holding him (Will, not the doctor) down, we left with a much heavier credit card debit and a son that looked as though he had been running with knives. He looks quite rakish with the stitches over one eye and I am sure milked it for all it was worth when he went back to creche on Friday. I refer to his Fridays at creche as his "harem day", as he is the only boy in the toddler room and seems to enjoy the day with "his ladies".
The weekend was ok but by Sunday everyone was a little tired and grumpy (the weather was pretty crap). Will secreted himself in our walk in wardrobe, playing with a 150 piece fuzzy felt farm, which was fine until I told him to pack it up. A fair bit of discussion ensued, which escalated to shouting and culminated in Will chucking an absolute mental and throwing the fuzzy felt in a temper tantrum around my wardrobe. The result looked a lot like someone had fed a bolt of felt through a garden mulcher in a confined space ie. my wardrobe. Will then buggered off somewhere and I spent the next hour de-felting my cupboard. Did you know that felt sticks incredibly well to all types of fabric and fuzzy felt farms come with teeny, tiny, drive you farking mad trying to find them pieces? This week at work I discovered a felt chicken perched happily on my black jacket - really adds to your image as a professional working mother, I think. The only thing that tops it is when you trail into work, blissfully unaware that you have sick down your back or in your hair. Anyway, fuzzy felt was eventually cleared up, I self medicated with brandy and was finally convinced my "child for sale" ad from ebay late in the evening.
Anyway, Will seems fine, no-one has told me they want to go vegan (yet) and I have decided that I may just let the little buggers cook for themselves - I just need to check to see if it is covered by our insurance. Fully expect to hear the smoke alarm go off when they discover that you CAN'T put plastic fruit in the toaster. Yum.
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