(Tues 8 May)
We’ve been a right grumpy bunch the past 2 days. The long weekend was rather wonderful, albeit full of Falklands weather (hailstones, sleet, wind and blazing sunshine, all in the same 15 minutes. On repeat. Each day) which meant that I didn’t pay any attention to the sun and ended up a tad pink. So I suffered the minxes giggling ‘loser!’ at me for 2 days. ‘Loser’ is shorthand in our family for ‘sunburn victim’. To be fair it was only my chest, but I really should know better. Especially as the girls were trussed up in long, loose sleeves, hats and sunglasses. I’m no longer a big fan of Factor 1,000,000 suncream on children, now that my brood are 2 years old and over. God knows, Vitamin D from sunlight is in short supply up here in the Frozen North – we need all we can get! I think the secret is just to be sun-aware and cover up before you’ve had enough. Ahem. I need to take my own advice Anyway, why so grumpy? Well, Monday night Mini Minx was up demanding “med-san” (medicine) for her eye. Eye? Do you have a sore eye, sweetheart? Oh, right, your eye. The one that lives in your mouth. Right where I think your molars are cutting… Uh-huh. So we gave her some Calpol (Calprofen seems to send her loopy and hyperactive) and her screams of pain and frustration blended seamlessly into screams of delight as she ran ragged round mine and The Boss’ bedroom for an hour. After finally getting her to bed, Midi came thundering in, complaining of nightmares. Another hour later, bed to our adult selves again, finally drifting off to sleep, only to be awoken by Foster Cat trying to budge me over so he could spread out. And later, Killer Cat doing the same thing, attempting to break The Cat Rule of no cats upstairs.
Last night, it was more of the same, but in reverse: we got a little sleep, then the cats woke us, then Midi, then Mini.
Around 6am I gave up trying to get back to sleep and persuaded The Boss to just get up and try to turn the yucky morning into something better. I talked him into making us all blueberry pancakes while I made Greek salads for 5 packed lunches. Tasted fine, but I bet it stank out a school and a work canteen with the amount of raw garlic I used (hehehehehehe).
Mini’s trying hard to say polysyllabic words: “Dada howma! Glap!” she smiled at me, nodding sagely.
“Dada howma! Howma! How! Ma! How! MAAA!” she frowned at me, like I was an idiot.
“I don’t understand, Mini. Say that again”.
She sighed. “Hawma! Hawma!” bashing my head. “Hawma! Dada! Hat”
“Oh!!!! Daddy’s helmet!” I gasped. She rolled her eyes: 25 months old 25 years attitude. “Ok, so what’s ‘glap’? What’s a glap? Where is it?” I guessed. She flexed her fingers. “Gloves?” I ventured.
“Yeeeee-ah!” she agreed, exasperated at having a fool for a mother, and shoving her finger up her nose.
So I scolded her: “No, I don’t want to see you picking your nose!” I guess the sharing lessons are sinking in: she promptly offered me her gooey finger. Yeuch.