1.  Hair

2.  Skin

3.  Bone

I’ve had all my hair cut off. I’ve worn it short for 20 years anyway, but recently I grew it. A bit.  It went wavy. Straight-haired, don’t-care-if-it’s-raining me.  It went fluffy at the ends.  I couldn’t do anything with it.  On holiday, The Man said it was horrible.  Now I am elfin, and he likes it again.  What a relief. “What conditioner do you use?” asked the Shampoo Girl.  ”Hedrin,” I didn’t say.  Lifestyle Guru Hairdresser has spent two years tut-tutting over the straw on my head and reassuring me that Hair Changes When You’re Pregnant. This time she sprayed my head with Instant Stand-Back Defibrillating Deep Impact Conditioner.  At least I hope that’s what it was.  But the haircut’s great, the colour’s great… and I would be walking on air except for one thing…. Lifestyle Guru Hairdresser,  who runs two salons, works full-time and has two sons aged 8 and 6, has finished her Christmas Shopping.  And it’s wrapped. 

Son 1 aged 5y 1m is much better but still droops if he’s not topped up with Calpol. The rash is still pver his neck, chest, stomach and back but it’s now faint pink.  Now.  All you consultant dermatologists and micro biologists reading this.  His molluscum, which has been the grinding bane of my world for months and months and months, is clearing up.  I have tried everything.  Some of the things I have tried  - neat tea tree oil - have made his skin even worse.  He was allergic to it and he  broke out in eczema. I tried to stop it spreading with every brand of skin sensitive plasters on them and he was allergic to them all. So his chest and tummy  was peppered with horrible pustuley molluscum, and the skin between was raw with eczema. Over the last week the eczema is in retreat and the molluscum is healing over and shrinking.  So what’s done that? The Strep bacteria or the penicillin? It’s got to be the bacteria, hasn’t it, because molluscum is a virus and we all know that Antibiotics Don’t Work On Viruses.     

The other Good Thing about today was the weather in the afternoon. We had thundering rain and Force 10 winds overnight and this morning… and then, still windy, still cold, but the sun came out. We wheeled the boys into The Town, did one of our all-you-can-carry Tesco shops and came back again with not a drop of rain on us. Son 2 aged 2y 2m was exhausted and refused to sleep, which made him into my stalker over tea.  Lamb shanks. The Man bought them. I cooked them. The Man had seconds. Son 2 ate three pieces. Son 1 chewed one, then stuck his tongue out downwards so the wodge fell off on to his plate.  He ate thirds of broccoli in cheese sauce.  ”Great,” said The Man. “I’m condemned to chicken and sausages for the rest of my life.”

1.  Dough

2.  Bread

3.  Darkness and Hail

They wanted to play with the Playdoh, and like a fool I let them.  Son 2 aged 2y 1m plays with it during the week, under Wonder Nanny’s gentle supervision.  Son 1 aged 5y 1m plays with it at school, charming teachers and Tea Club Helpers with the delight he takes in it.  Together, on the little yellow table, they were murderous.  If Son 1 rolled, Son 2 wanted the roller.  If Son 2 squodged, it was the blob Son 1 was going to use. There was snatching and scrapping and shrieking.  And finally there was a lump of blue, trod into the bottom of Son 2’s shoes… and then into the stairs, and the hall carpet, and the lino.  While we were away, the carpet cleaner came and did the lounge, which was looking a bit Jackson Pollock.  ”If one bit of Playdoh gets on the carpet upstairs, I’m throwing it all out,” I said.  We went shopping. “Is it pocket money day?” said Son 1, as I counted out coins in the fishmonger’s. I gave him a £2 coin. We had to go to the toyshop. The only thing he wanted for £2 was a Playdoh toy.  And like a fool, I let him.

We met the Vicar in M and S.  We were trying to control a tantrumming Son 2… he was wandering round with a basket, peering at the ready meals. “Is it your turn to cook?” I asked.   No. The Vicar’s Wife is going on a trip, helping one of their sons move to a town many hundreds of miles away.  “But The Church is full of great cooks,” I said. “Can’t you just work it into a conversation so that someone will arrive carrying a casserole?” “I haven’t told anyone she’s going,” he said. “I don’t like to impose.”  That’s why I like the Vicar.  One of the most imposed-upon people I have ever met… whose flock includes scores of ladies of a certain generation who would rain pies upon him if he asked… but he doesn’t like to impose. He headed off to the check out with a bottle of wine on top of his shopping, so I liked him even more.   I simply don’t have enough life to cook for The Vicar.  But I know someone who might.   I think I’ll mention it…

Son 2 finally fell asleep in The Big Pram; Son 1 and I went to change the library books; The Man strode off home with the shopping.  Son 2 woke up just as we were leaving the library, and picked up his tantrum where he left off. ”I wan’  ge’ ou’!”  “No. It takes too long to get you back in.”  I pushed him up the hill, Son 1 trailing behind us looking at his Playdoh toy.  I suddenly noticed the sky, very, very low, and very, very dark. “Son 1! Will you please hurry! There’s an enormous black cloud up there and I want to get us home now!”  He walked slowly on.  “Son 1, MOVE! That big black cloud is just about to dump everything it has on our heads.” He got the message, but he couldn’t move fast enough.  It started to rain, so I swept him under the handle of the Big Pram onto his nappy bag seat, and pushed them both up the hill so fast my heartbeat pounded in my ears.  We were 300 yards from home when the hail started machine-gunning down on us, hammering onto the road so hard it bounced back hip high.  Son 1 and Son 2 screamed.  The Big Pram is a Big Pram because it’s a three-wheeled, heavy-axled, jogging buggy, bought in the days when I thought I would still run 30 miles a week. Son 1 and I went running with it seven whole times, but Son 2’s reflux meant we never tried.  Until today.  I RAN.  It still does its stuff. We crammed ourselves into the porch, soaking.  “I wet,” said Son 2. “Big back cowd.”  It stopped his tantrum.  But I can’t quite work out if it means I’m supposed to cook something for The Vicar.

1.  Two Faces

2.  The Lone Ranger

3.  Comedy Tragedy

Best Friend’s birthday party today. We had a present and a card but no wrapping paper. So. The plan was to go into The Town with Granny and Grandad, where we would also buy a scarey mask for Son 1 aged 5y 1m, to change one of his Dressing Up outfits into a Ghost Pirate for Halloween.  Before G and G arrived, the children were Very Hard Work. They did well in playing on their own in the lounge for about an hour while I tidied and did washing and hoovered. But then Son 2 got tired, they started bickering, Son 2 started squealing and needing me… Son 1 went nuts because I was trying to be sympathetic to Son 2… and I Could Have Done Better.  G and G arrived and they were still hard work. We pushed them both into the Town, Son 2 in the Big Pram in the hope he’d sleep, Son 1 in the buggy because he refused to walk.  It was Perfect. 

I got Son 1 a Marks mask (say that fast a few times each day and keep your jawline trim.)  We pushed them down to The Square for coffee to make Son 2 fall asleep.  Son 1 was still wrecked with tiredness, and alternated between being a cuddly on-the-knee want-my-mummy’s boy and a sulky nightmare. He had a hot chocolate and an apple muffin.  Son 2 woke up. I pushed him round the Square and The Museum, remembering the scores of times we did it when I was on maternity leave, hoping he’d fall asleep. He never did. ”Do you want to go back to sleep, or go back to the cafe?” I asked. “Hot choc choc,” he said.  Son 1 fed him bits of apple muffin, and then they both sipped through straws to share Son 1’s chocolate.   They looked adorable, and Granny and Grandad both took pics.  We went back. I stopped in the fishmonger’s to get some sea bass for tea with Nanna tomorrow.  I caught up Granny and Son 1 further on. “Son 1, where’s your mask?”  He hyperventilated. “Sorry Mummy.”  I power walked the 3/4 of a mile back to the cafe, where it was still in the booth we sat in. And then, worried about Son 2, I walked home with it as fast as I could.

Grandad decided he was going to rest, but Granny came to the party with us. Son 1 wore Captain Hook and carried his new mask.  Son 2 wore the same bat costume he had last year when he was 13m: http://mumsnet.com/blogs/serenedays/2008/10/26/four-candles/ Aged 1 - 2. It’s supposed to last. Son 1 and Best Friend ran round together the whole time.  I was up, down, inside, outside, following Son 2.  A mother was there I hadn’t seen for while. She had an appalling time last year, (see http://mumsnet.com/blogs/serenedays/2008/04/12/the-lesson/) and I still ache in sympathy for her.  We chatted; she’s brilliant. I hope.   After the cake and candles, Son 1, Best Friend and Son 2 picked blackberries at the bottom of the playground. ”Pop” went a balloon.  Back home we said goodbye to Granny and Grandad who are leaving early in the morning.  Son 2 accidentally punched me in the eye so hard he knocked my contact lens out. “Bring me a mirror!” I begged Son 1, who brought me my Chanel compact, broke it into bits, dropped the powder on the floor and then rubbed it all into the lino.  At least I found the contact lens.

1.  Gasping

2.  Blowing

3.  Snorting

4.  Bubbles

“Darling,” I said, putting my arms around The Man’s neck before he had his teeth in. “Men are Protectors.  Women are Nurturers.  Your job is to be Be Strong.  Mine is to Cherish.”  “What are you after?” he asked. “There’s a dead rat by the back door and I ain’t touching it,”  I said.  The large, clear-eyed, glossy-coated rat we saw sitting on its haunches in the back yard, gazing straight at us, coincided with the head lice outbreak. http://mumsnet.com/blogs/serenedays/2009/10/05/the-ugly-bug-ball/ I didn’t put it in The Blog; I forgot.  So often happens with life’s little nasties when you have a Positive Attitude.  And then I looked up rats on Mumsnet. The post that haunted me said that the problem isn’t the one you see, it’s the huge family out of sight. So we called the Rat Man and he came, last Saturday, in an unmarked van.  He put one box down in the yard, behind a paving slab “where the boys can’t get it,” said The Man.  Yes darling I’m really going to let them play in the yard when there’s a rat the size of Son 2 aged 2y 1m living there. Another box went in the alleyway next to the house.  I went downstairs this morning. I put the kettle on. I put the first load of washing on.  I went to take the rubbish out, glanced through the window and there it was.  Smaller than before, the sheen on its fur gone.  Looking like it had died crawling out of the drainpipe across the doorway.   Which of course it probably had.  27 years of being asked why I’m vegetarian. Because I cannot cannot cannot stand critturs dying.

The Man is off on another Business Trip tomorrow, so we took Son 1 aged 5y and Son 2 out for breakfast.  By the time we got to the Cafe, Son 1 was so hungry he couldn’t behave.  The Man thought it was a disaster, but I think they’re improving.  Son 1’s eyes lit up when he saw the straw in his drink. He “always gets the bubbly glass,” and a few splashes of pineapple juice were spattered around. The Man growled.   Son 2 watched intently, took his straw in his little mouth and blew out his entire glassfull. The Man barked.

There’s another Festival in The Town so off we went. We met Friends with a 3 year old, and took the boys into the Marquee to paint shells.  Son 1 was Perfect Child, mixing a base colour, dabbing, adding glitter, doing twiddly bits at the edges. Son 2. It didn’t start well. He dabbed a great blob of red paint on the end of a paintbrush. And then I decided to take his reins off. The paint got on his reins. And on his hair, up his nose, on me and all over the nappy bag. I tried babywiping the paint out of his fringe and it just got rubbed in and looked like I’d dyed it. Then the red paintbrush went in the green paint tub. Then the glitter, which they were supposed to take little pinches of and sprinkle, was upturned onto his shell. Then he globbed blue paint all over Son 1’s shell and the tanks came over. I had to buy £6 worth of raffle tickets to make it up to the woman.

We did ice cream, we did coffee. We bought sausage rolls for lunch and Son 2 fell asleep. The Festival was packed. We bought a bottle of sparking white wine with six plastic glasses - four for us and two for whoever  turns up as soon as you’ve bought a bottle -  and sat down in the sunshine on the pavement by the side of The Museum.   A wedding party trooped past on the way to a boat trip from The Quay.   The boys crayoned, posted gravel in breeze block holes, and played with Go Gos and Son 2’s farm.  A friend walked by with his dog, and helped himself to a glass from the back of the Pram. The local policeman passed. “Vagrants!” he called. “Just drinking outside before it’s banned!” I called back.  The sun and the shadows moved round… the wedding party returned. We pushed the boys back home and gave them ready meals for tea.

1.  Souvenirs

2.  Keepsakes

3.  A Lovesome Thing

Thank Heavens and Stars we didn’t have to get up for school.  Son 1 aged 5 was already in the Double Bed with us, Son 2 aged 2 roared: “I WANT MY MUMMY!” We brought him in with us, and tried to settle them both back to sleep.  “Big Poo.” Ah.  I switched the light on to change him. Son 1 reached over and switched it off again.  I took Son 2 into the bathroom.  I’d picked up two lollies on my Office trip, and had stuffed them in my vanity case.  He found them instantly. “I wan’ lollipop! I wan’ lollipop!” “No,” I said. “You can have one later.” “I wan’ lollipop!” He burst into tears. “Son 1 will go back to sleep if you keep the noise down,” called The Man. I took Son 2 downstairs. 

We had to take Granny back to the Airport, and decided we would stop off in the Big Town. Granny gave Son 1 a ten pound note, and it was smouldering in his pocket.  I needed to take back part of Son 1’s uniform - the shop had given me an aged 8 size instead of aged 5. Son 1 wanted to go to the Early Learning Centre to look at the toys.  The Man and Granny said they’d go and swap the clothes, and I could stay with the boys. “You can all go,” said Son 1. “I will look at toys and  wait for you.” “No,” said The Man. “We need someone with you to supervise.” “I have super eyes!” Son 1said. “I will look at all the toys and make sure I see everyone. I have the best eyes, don’t I Mummy?”  Son 1 chose a PIrates and Baddies spoons set, and Son 2 wanted a little farm.   How do people keep on top of toys?  We have so many we can barely all fit in The House, and The Man and I have Deep and Earnest (= Somewhat  Shouty) conversations about how The House is full of tat.   

We waved Granny off and went to Nanna’s. No-one in. I’d left my mobile at home. We climbed over various plants, spread out the car rug, got out the boys’ tuck box and a ball from the car, and settled down to read the Early Learning Centre catalogue.  Bees buzzed and big Red Admirals settled on the Michaelmas daisies. The sun shone.  The boys played with Son 2’s farm, and Son 1 whined that he wanted to make his pirates.  Son 1 needed a poo.  It was a difficult moment. All we could do was aim him at an open nappy and fold everything up into a nappy bag.  Son 2 announced he’d done a poo. We’d just used the last nappy. We’d waited an hour, but we had to go. Back home there was a message on the mobile.  Nanna and Teenaged Niece had been delayed.  I rang them and we agreed to meet tomorrow. It was good to be back in the Big Bed.

1.  Resistance

2.  Inertia

3.  Flow

On days like today I need a Positive Blog. We are, all four of us, knackered.  Son 1 aged 5 goes deaf when he’s tired.  My voice gets louder and I repeat myself, repeat myself.  Son 2 aged 2 grizzles and clings.  The Man lists faults. Out loud. We are worried about Son 2’s Godmother, who is on a drip in hospital with a kidney infection. And Granny is coming to stay for nearly a week tomorrow, so there has been some mad tidying, and a rather ill-timed attempt to Improve Your Children’s Table Manners In 24 Hours.  However. Digging deep in the day…  Son 2 wanted to lie down in Son 1’s bed. With Mummy.  He pulled the cover over his head, pressed his soft little face close to mine, and dozed off with snuffly little snores.  He had about 20 minutes’ sleep before Son 1 woke him by throwing toys around.

I got the boys’ hair cut.  After lunch, piled Son 2 into the Big Pram, ignored Son 1’s attempts to get in it, and strode off for The Town.  Son 1 whined every step of the way. He wanted to ride on the Pram. At the bottom of the hill I gave in. He stands on the axle and holds on to the handle, in a sort of makeshift buggy board stance.  I take the weight on my back and arms, and tell myself I’m burning calories.  This time he has perfected his technique.  He rested his bottom on the nappy bag so he had a seat. At the hairdressers’, Son 1 just stared, exhausted, in the mirror and didn’t bother answering any questions. He could barely keep his head upright for her. Son 2 was Perfect Child, sitting in a car in the window watching The Wiggles on their DVD.  People passing pointed and smiled. I hope because my child is so beautiful, and not because they were saying “Why doesn’t that mother just cut it herself?”  They both look great.  Son 1 misbehaved all the way back.

While we were out, The Man changed some of the water in the Fish Tank, so it looks better.  We switched on the skull and treasure chest bubbles, and Flossy and Coupon seemed to play quite happily.   We had a Fishkeeping For Beginners moment earlier.  I asked The Man to turn up the heater because the water seemed to be getting cooler - it’s meant to be 25C, and was barely 20C.  He kept turning it up. Nothing happened. And then… we… er… realised the heater wasn’t on. The water was at room temperature and was getting cooler because it’s getting cooler.  Still.  It doesn’t seem to have bothered Flossy and Coupon, who after 10 days with us are still alive and seem to be having a good time. Excellent. That means 1 in 3 members of our family has in fact enjoyed today.  I knew this Blog was a Good Thing.

1.  A Happy Child

2.  A Blushing Bride

3.  A Respectable Mother

So. A while back, I told Son 1 aged 5 that going to school on your birthday means a party before, a birthday tea on the day, and a Treat the weekend after. He wanted to know what the Treat would be.  Going to the Willy Wonka Sweet Shop and choosing whatever you like. So after breakfast we stepped out, Son 2 aged 2 in the Big Pram, and Son 1 walking.  Son 1 didn’t want to walk.  He wanted Son 2 out of the Big Pram.  I have lurked long and shamefacedly on the parenting threads and established that no-one else is still pushing their schoolage child around in a Pram he outgrew two years ago. When He Is Five, I told myself, we will stop. So. Son 2 stayed in the pram. And Son 1 rode all the way through The Town on the axle of the Pram, holding on to the handles like crutches.  The Sweet Shop was brilliant. Chocolates and lollies and chews and fudges and jelly beans and picknmix and toffee and Everything.  I bought them both a 10p lolly to suck while they peered, pop-eyed, at it all.  Son 1 chose a big colourful Childcatcher lolly, so Son 2 had to have the same. And they chose a walking stick full of jelly beans for later. 

We were going to a Young Friend’s wedding. Late lunchtime kick off. The boys wouldn’t eat their lunch because they were full of lolly, so I took a packed lunch for the church. I put them in the purple velvet waistcoats I bought them for Son 2’s christening. Son 2 was christened when he was 8 months old.  His waistcoat did look a little strained across the tummy, but otherwise it did ok.  A 2 year old in 6m - 12m clothing. He really is small. I wonder if I should get him looked at. The vicar was grumpy, and stumbled all over the Dearly Beloved bit. No photos. No confetti here, there or there. No videos. And there’ll be a collecting plate at the back for you to pay to restore our historical but crumbling church. Son 2 dropped a mango smoothie all over the historical floorboards.  The bride was radiant, with a sunbeam smile which almost cheered the vicar up. Her parents cried throughout.  ”Chitty Bang Bang” said Son 2 during the ceremony. “Big Poo,” he said during the signing of the register. Outside they loved throwing confetti, and with other children, picked it up and threw it over each other after the bride and groom had moved on. It was a grey afternoon, but a great shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds as they got into their open-top wedding car to drive away.

Nanna babysat Son 2 while The Man and I took Son 1 to the Evening Do. The plan was that we would let him be grown up, and then leave early. We pushed him across The Town in The Big Pram - whoops, there went my good intentions - with him talking about Kung Fu Panda all the way.  He was delighted to find there were cameras on every table… although as a child of the digital age it was news to him that you have to wind film on.  He danced a bit in my arms, but he was incredibly tired.  I’d brought a pillow and a blanket, and he made himself a little bed behind a row of chairs and off he went to sleep. We stayed till midnight, decanted him back into the Big Pram and pushed him back home through The Town. A drunken reveller cat-called something like: “Take that child home! Call yourself a respectable mother?”  Clearly referring to the five-year-old in the pushchair. Can’t have meant anything else, can they?

1.  Making Bags

2.  Making Sandwiches

3.  Making Merry

27.  The vegetarian boy’s Mother called off, two older boys turned up… no-one dropped out and I have absolutely no idea who The Last One was.  I am Toast.  Charred and chewed.  Ringing head. Rabid sciatica.  Twitching eyelid.  Compulsive hair twiddling.  Hope you’re ok.  So. Up at the crack.  Son 1 aged 4y 11m with one goal. Doing The Party Bags.  I read to Son 2 aged 2, but we finished too soon. The second we got to the kitchen, Son 2 started unpicking the bubble wands Son 1 and The Man had just carefully sellotaped to the Scooby Do bubbles. Son 1 screamed.  The next thing to go in was the sweets. ”Can we eat them?” said Son 1.  ”Yes. If you eat your breakfast you can have them as your treat in Tonic, Treat and Teeth.”  They gorged parma violets and lollies and chews.  Son 2 gobbled boiled sweets. Choked. Spat out.  The advantage of eight months’ reflux hell is the best gag reflex this side of an eating disorder.     Son 2 happily plopped sweets into each party bag. 

The Man was a Marvel.  He started making sandwiches at 0830, went down into Town twice, made all the party food - sandwiches, vegetable fingers, topped strawberries, packed up all the stuff, made two trips to the Church - with Son 1 - and presented it all beautifully. He was singing as he washed up 15 minutes before we had to go. A Magical Moment which is going in The Album.

And The Party.  27 + children, 24 party bags, 30 balloons and a bouncy castle. Acoustic Armageddon.   Son 1and Best Friend were, by several streets, the Worst Behaved Children there.   The Bouncy Castle Man, because I asked him nicely, turned up 45 minutes ahead of start time so Son 1 and a handful of friends could have a Good Old Play before the rest of the guests arrived.   I thought it would calm them down.  Nope.  They were orbiting at sub-atomic speeds, and then the Gentle New Children from Son 1’s reception class arrived with their bewildered parents.  The Children’s Entertainers were amazing. Party games, a puppet show, magic tricks.   Son 1 had the time of his life.  Son 2 less so… he needed me to help him enjoy it and although I did my best I couldn’t always do it. Nanna just sat on her chair throughout, watching.  I had Great Help.  Son 2’s wonderful Godmother queened it in the kitchen with The Man, serving squashes, teas, coffees… and, when I got up the nerve, beer and bucks fizz. She washed up, she did the party bags.  She’s a miracle.  Best Friend’s Mother got the most outrageous gossip from her chatting.  All to do with ex-boyfriends, impossible overlaps between Reception Dads and Breastfeeding Group Mums, and a jaw-dropping “I should have chosen you” moment.   Bloody Hell. If “He” goes off with “Her” it’ll be my fault.   And the present pile, oh God the present pile.  It was for two children remember…. but a small, church hall table piled with 50 plus presents does not look good.   In my defence, Son 2 had money for the Children’s Hospice instead of presents for his christening. And I promise they’re having goats next year.   ”Did you like your party, Son 1?” “Yes I really enjoyed it.”  And still they both span bedtime out to get more time with Mummy.

1.  Swimming By Dozens

2.  A Nine Turtle Stack

3.  The King Of The Pond

A very tired Son 1 aged 4y 11m was in bed with me when I woke. No idea when he arrived.  We had a vague plan to start getting the fish tank ready for fish. But a friend texted… partner working and in the market for a trip. We decided crabbing on The Boat. The Man went down to the shops to get picnic stuff. Son 1 watched telly. Son 2 aged 23m came in the shower with me. He’s grrrr-reat.

We chugged for about 45 minutes, then The Man anchored and we got out the crab lines. Our Friend had brought with a vast pile of saved washing tablet net bags. “I knew they’d come in handy one day,” she said. They are just the best thing for crabbing. You fill them with bacon, add a stone, chuck it overboard and wait.   We caught 61 crabs. Son 1 was fab, he’s so confident now, he was hauling them in, catching them in his net and plopping them in the buckets without any adult help.  Son 2 was weeping with frustration because Son 1 wouldn’t let him hold a net with crabs in.  Poor little titch.  Living with us has taught him that he’ll always be left out and treated like a baby, and he’s responded by barging into everything without caring if he’s physically big enough to Have A Go.  In the end he got so tired we had to put the engine on to get him to sleep. Which meant emptying out the crabs.  Hmmm. We had our 60+ crabs in four  beach buckets. The ones at the bottom of the pile did not look happy.  I think we re-created Yertle The Turtle.  In my role as official animal welfare inspector I think next time we need either bigger buckets or fewer crabs.

Both boys fell asleep in the cabin on the way back, and Little Friend eventually passed out in his mother’s arms.   Back on the mooring, The Man switched the engine off.  Son 2 woke instantly and sprang into action.  The other mother couldn’t believe it. Happens every time, we told her. Back home, the boys were tired, we were tired, but Son 1 was determined to Wash Gravel to prepare the Fish Tank.  “I’ll make the tea,” said The Man. “You wash the gravel with them.”  “No, no, it’s ok,” I said. “I’ll make the tea, you wash the gravel.”  Son 2 insisted on being involved. I listened to the sounds of a bucket of gravel getting washed in the back sink.  “Son 2!” “No, Son 2!” “No!” The Man was more patient that I’d've been.  They both ate their stir fry, with Son 1 proclaiming:”This is the best chicken I ever tasted.”  Farm shop chicken, ridiculously expensive.  He can spot the bad stuff at 20 paces too.

1.   True Love

2.   Little One

3.   A Swell Party

Son 2 aged 23m has a hacking cough. Son 1 aged 4y 11m is sneezing and coughing.  I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.  It’s the end of August, and because The Man has spent the summer re-fitting and painting and sanding we’ve only been out on The Boat twice. The forecast was so-so, and worse for tomorrow.  The Boat it was.  Son 1 and The Man went off to get the dinghy ready. Son 2 ran after them, a sandal in each hand, “and me!” and sobbed when they left without him.  I put him outside in the yard on the astroturf, naked,  with a bowl of warm soapy water, some washing powder jugs and two beach buckets.  I started on the sandwiches.  Son 2 toddled back in carrying the empty bowl.  “More wah wah!”  “Who tipped out the last bowl?” I asked. “Me!”  Off he went.  I carried on.  He came back in twice more for water.  I chopped vegetables. Then he came back in and pawed at his clothes. “Dest.” “You want to get dressed?”  “Yes peez.” And then “Pooo.” He pointed to the yard. There, on the sodden, soap-soaked astroturf, was a damp, squashed poo. 

Son 2 was hard work. Clingy, insistent, tearful.  He also kept falling over.  The Man and Son 1 came back and we went down to the Yacht Club.  Son 1 and Son 2 played races on the lawn. “Ready… Steady… Go!” yelled Son 1 as they pelted across it. Son 2 was still falling over.  “Try ‘Ready, Steady, Lie Down.’” I said.  “Ready, Steady, Sleep!” called Son 1, and they both fell down. In lifejackets. Stuck on their backs like upended tortoises. 

So we took the baby with his fluey cold and balance problems and put him on a motor boat in a heavy swell.  He fell over. In the cabin. Bump on the forehead. He fell over on the deck.  Bump on the forehead.  We had lunch, and then bribed the boys. If they went to sleep they could have a sweet when they woke up. They both slept.  I read the paper, The Man and I drank coffee.  When they woke up we caught crabs. The world-record for Biggest One Yet.  Barely fit in the bucket.  Son 1 was a stroppy, screeching pain all the way back. I did not cope well.  I think that’s Three Down, and The Man in charge.