Wednesday: Another day, another juggle.
This morning kind of set the tone for the rest of the day. It was the standard nursery-day battle of wills to get Maxi and Midi Minxes to eat something, drink their milk, get into clothes and shoes and into the car, whilst feeding Mini Minx porridge, get her breastfed, nappy changed, clothes on and shoe-horn the Bucking Bronco into her car seat.
I was scoring maybe 6/10 getting them to eat their breakfast and a 4 on the milk front. Maxi was naked and refusing to dress, whilst Midi was clinging to her pyjamas. Mini started up her siren wail, so I abandoned my coffee (+5 bonus points for actually getting to drink some) and went to change her nappy. My nose tried to claw its way to the back of my head before I walked through her door. Yep – leaky dirty nappy. And from the sight of her red raw and burnt looking wee bum, she must have pooed as soon as she was put down to bed last night. So a quick emergency bath (and I’m already running 10 mins late: joyous), and she screamed the place down. As she well might with sore lady bits, still half asleep and wanting her milk. Midi Minx, who’s suddenly become a very protective big sister, came thundering up the stairs to see what was going on. Placated that I was being a Mummy, not a murderer, she stroked my cheek and bizarrely sighed, “Never mind, Mummy”.
Mini Minx’s angry kicks and jerks as she fought being dressed (“No, don’t put me in the cute blue dungarees, I’m a baby Emo but you don’t know it yet. No, not the pink stripes. Bunnies!!! Arrrrgh! This is Child Cruelty!”) soon opened up a very deep crack in my fingers, so as well as a nappy-load of poo to deal with, I had to avoid bleeding on everything. And yes, it hurt. Quite a lot. Indeed, I nearly winced. (I’m Glaswegian, dontcha know?)
Downstairs, I barked orders to Finish. That. Breakfast. NOW. Or I’ll take Bagpuss away for a day. Midi Minx pouted out her bottom lip and rolled her eyes while waggling her chin left and right (??? Where the hell did she learn that?) “I full-up. Can I get down now?” The combination of fact and politeness are hard to resist, as well she knows, so we moved on to Round 3 of the Morning Fight.
As I yanked Midi into her clothes, Mini kept escaping with her Terminator Crawl to sniff out and retrieve one of Midi’s potties. Maxi has hip-length thick hair and gets hysterical when I brush out tugs, so the way she was practicing putting her hair into a twisty ponytail didn’t auger well. I picked up Mini Minx from the floor, moved her to another room and distracted her with a toy. She hit it out my hands. Riiip, another deep hack in another finger. Sigh. Curse under my breath. Fetch different toy. Find Midi Minx (trying to hide inside the sofa, behind the cushions). Sit her down and try to peel pyjamas off her. Yell at Maxi to Leave. Your. Hair. Alone. Mutter to self. Go get hairbrush and attack Maxi’s hair. Forget hairbands. Fetch hairbands. Attack hair. Yell at Midi to turn her trousers round and put them back on. Go get Mini Minx from the potty. Put potty on the table. Start Maxi’s hair again. Yell at Midi to put her trousers back on and to put her socks back on, they were fine the first time. Dry Mini’s snot and push the potty further into the middle of the table. Ask Maxi to put her shoes on the right feet, it’s not funny.
Then the doorbell goes. It’s 0845hrs. “Hello, it’s Carnold Lark*, we’re here to collect your car”. The deep breath I took was probably what stopped me ripping the poor innocent’s head off. We have history, me and Carnold Lark* (see Longest Angry Rant Yet post last month).
*Name changed as they haven’t the ability to tell their side of the story. Obviously. Allegedly.
I calmly explain that the car was booked to be picked up at 12, because I needed it to drop the kids off and do the food shop. The man waggled some paper in my face. I agreed that his slip of paper did indeed say 9am, but my bit of paper filled in by The Boss said 12 noon. He’d booked it specifically, and Carnold Lark had agreed, because we’d been messed around so many times before (The Boss booked the MOT a month before it was due to run out because we needed it done on a Saturday. 10 mins after he set off to get it MOT’d, Carnold Lark phoned to say their computer had broken and they couldn’t do it. They’d phone back with an alternative appointment. They didn’t. All that week. So The Boss pinned them down, and they kindly offered to pick the car up and drop it off for us). I suggested to the poor man at the door, being traumatised by Midi Minx running around naked with her trousers on her head, that there’d been a mix-up somewhere, and offered to get home as fast as poss before 12, and phone when the car was available.
So I did! I skipped breakfast, raced around the Post Office, the dump, Tesco, pushed back baby R’s breastfeed to get back asap. I phoned at 1105hrs. The receptionist said someone would be out shortly or at noon at the latest. 1235hrs – nothing. I was too angry to call, so asked The Boss to deal with them. (Yeah, I know: <waves hands wetly> I’m just a silly woman, can you do it for me? Well, I have a very sharp tongue when angry and I don’t want to injure someone’s psyche for life). Anyway, they’d stuffed up. They’d not even booked-in the MOT (allegedly), and were fully-booked tomorrow. Our MOT runs out the day after. The Boss negotiated a pick-up the final day of the MOT. The Customer Service Manager phoned The Boss and explained that the communication skills of ‘Tony’ were lacking. You’re not kidding. I hate garages. I really, really do.