Ahhhh. Kids have been stripped and reassembled for Normal Daily Cleaning; the house now resembles a house rather than a post-apocalyptic hovel; 2 minxes are squabbling about an invisible castle one of them constructed (“Stop going in my castle! Mine! Mine!” yelled Builder “No, I can live here, because I’m a Princess!” pouted Drama Queen), whilst Minx 3 is grizzling, over-tired, on my lap. Drama Queen is sporting eye-stinging colour combinations today, made up of shorts, tee shirt, thermals, princess dress, ballet slippers and fairy wings. On skewy. Builder is enveloped in various shades of brown, in a mix of seasonal appropriateness, but all are soft to the touch – I guess she’s coming down with yet another bug, then. I let the kids dress themselves because I made an Executive Decision last night that I’d not be driving them to and from nursery today, as it wasn’t actually essential that they go.
Baby Minx has made another developmental leap. In wilfulness. She refused to eat her baby porridge this morning, pursing her little lips up till her chubby cheeks dimpled, and pointing her earlobe at me. She’s decided that she’s too old to be spoonfed anymore and will only self-feed. Of course, when you’re 8 months old, the texture and smell of porridge distracts you very easily: it’s so much more fun to rub it in your hair, drop it by your feet so you can paint with your toes, and razzberry it at grumpy old mummy rather than *consume* the slop. I indulged the elder minx when she was going through this stage, but I just don’t have time anymore (well, Minx 2 can cause utter havoc in an empty padded cell if left unsupervised for 15 seconds). Being a wily minx myself long before I was a grumpy old trout, I shovelled porridge into her little mouth with the speed and dexterity of a ninja every time she opened it to chew her spoon. I guess her smug look could be interpreted as, “Whoah, dude, I’ve found a self-filling spoon! Totally awesome!” She is young; she will learn.
I’ve gotten into a habit of singing loudly to distract the girls when they bicker or a tantrum threatens. I don’t think about the tune (not that I’m tuneful anyway), I just sing the first thing that pops into my desperate head. This morning’s squawking was Roger Miller’s ‘King of the Road’. Baby R was smiling and nodding her little head, Middle Minx was covering her ears (she prefers Radiohead), Mini Minx thoughfully asked, “I like it, Mummy. Is it a nursery rhyme?”
In other news: one advantage to living next door to a building site is that the builders have just trundled past gritting the road. I see why: a tall fork-lift-digger type affair (I don’t know what it is – think metal T Rex) just zipped down the road at 8 times the speed The Boss moved at as he drove to work this morning. Maybe I will manage to get the double buggy and baby in a sling down the hill through the 6″ snow to the Post Office today after all. Besides, I have boot spikes 🙂