They’re all bloody menkle.
The Littlest Chum is on a toddling mission to explore the highest peaks of the living room. He keeps toppling off stuff, and I keep saying, ah well, he’ll only do it once. Er, twice. Um, well surely he won’t do it the fifteenth time? Oh.
The Pie is on top form in the Supersonic Whine category. Honestly, she would win awards for it. I wouldn’t mind the shrill whinging so much if it wasn’t accompanied by the sly punching. She’s a bit, um, hard work at the moment. We have an action plan involving cutting out aspartame and more sleep. I’ll let you know how that goes.
The Boy has decided he worships the Ancient Greek Gods and has devoted himself to Poseidon. This may explain his bizarre (if not divine) ability to sniff out water (or mud) at ten paces and immerse himself. Unless the water is in a bath. Then he’ll invoke all sorts of cast iron reasons why he doesn’t need one. It’s a paradox.
The Rock God is a different kind of insanio altogether. Earlier he told me that he’d had a grand plan to wash ALL his new work t shirts last weekend, but because I’d washed two of them earlier in the week he couldn’t. So he didn’t wash any. He had a system, you see. And I’d carelessly scuppered it.
On similar lines, I devised a rota for housework the other week, which is working well so far EXCEPT that I had to specifically add that it was ok to deviate from the rota. We don’t HAVE to wait until Tuesday or Thursday to clean the bathroom, and it’s ok to hoover downstairs on a Wednesday if there’s weetabix crushed into the rug. Once we’d established that, it went a lot smoother.
It’s a good thing I’m such a paragon of mental normalness, or we’d be going to hell in a handbasket.