1.  Lies

2.  Damn Lies

3.  Statistics

Last night I worked late and went to bed very late.   Well towards 1am, I tiptoed upstairs, weightless, soundless, I did not breathe.  The Man rolled over, grumbled and switched off the telly.   I took out my contact lenses.  I peered behind me.  Son 1 had teleported in,  lurching round like a drunk. The Man was in the Big Bed, he wanted to lie down, but “Where’s Mummy?” “In the bathroom.”  Son 1 was still bothered by The Man in the Big Bed.  “When you’re not here, if I wake him up when I come to bed, he settles down in your side watching me while I take off my make up and do my teeth, and then I have a little read in bed, and then we both go to sleep.”  The Man harrumphed and  trogged off to the Blue Room.  Yes yes I know that Son 1 will one day be off with She Who Will Never Be Good Enough For Him and I should be Putting My Eggs In The Man’s Basket (this is going badly wrong) but what the hell. It was the way Son 1 just stood patiently at the bedside waiting for his space to become available… 

So this morning I was matchsticks-under-the-eyelids. Another oh God look at the state of the boys, never mind, Wonder Nanny can do it when she gets here, bye, sesh.  I am doing better though on reading to Son 2.  We did our five books.  Pinocchio, for God’s sake. He insisted.  This is Son 1’s library book, the Disney series that everyone has at least 1 of, somewhere.  I should be reading stuff that is Rooted In Reality.  About washing machines and buggies and looking at leaves.  So. Son 2. Gepetto makes this toy, and the only woman in the story, winged, badly drawn, wearing a pillow case,  makes it come alive, and it goes shopping and gets mugged - twice -  and then gets caged, whereupon Gepetto rescues it and they all live happily ever after.  Son 2 couldn’t give a hoot, and wanted it twice. He’s only really looking at the pictures of the nose getting bigger. “Wee wee,” he said, at the end.  I went all the way downstairs to get his potty. He rejected it, sat on Son 1’s old booster seat, and wee-d in the loo. PSB. “Bye bye Mummy,” he said, as I went off to The Office. 

At bedtime, Son 1 gets the book time. We took out 17 from the library, some for Son 2, but most chosen by him. ”Improving your fishing,” has been a bit of a challenge.  I always put at least one book about another country or culture in the pile. ”And the liberal, with a small ‘l’, cries in front of the TV,” sang Billy Bragg when I was Young. ”Coming Home” went in on the strength of a cover drawing of a black woman in a hijab with a small boy. Oh-Good-Islam-Portrayal-Not-Arab-We’ll-Have-It was the quarter second attention it got as I tossed it in.  Hassan is a Somalian refugee.  Son 1 and I have done Somalia, in answer to the “Mummy, are there any pirates now?” question. “There are some very poor people from a very poor country run by bullies and they steal other people’s boats and ships because they Have Nothing.” “What happens to them?” “President Obama (Most Powerful Man In The World.  In answer to: “Who’s that man on your book?”) sent a big ship and told them to stop. Now darling, let’s clear out Son 2’s old toys and take them to Oxfam.”   Hassan’s Uncle is killed by soldiers who burn his house down. Son 1 wanted it twice. ”Is his Uncle dead?” “What happened to the animals?” “Where are his cousins?” “Will it happen here?”  At this point my inner Nanna broke through and I couldn’t resist. “No. Because we are one of the richest countries in the world, and you are such a lucky little boy, and that is why Daddy and I get cross when you don’t realise - ” Son 1 burst into tears. “I’m scared of the soldiers.”  Gepetto was a woodcarver, I said, and one day he made a puppet. 

1.  Slumbers

2.  Climbers

3.  Numbers

I bought Son 1 aged 4y 6m two new DVDs.  Tarzan and Cars. Two-for-the-price-of-one at Tesco.  Bribery for behaving at the Trade Fair yesterday.  This morning, for the first time ever, I managed to get Son 2 aged 18m back to sleep after he’d woken up at 6am.  I snugged in bed with him; he snugged in bed with me.  He dozed.  I read somewhere that some children are hyper-stimulated by their mother’s presence in bed, and always counted Son 2 as one of them, lucky me.  But this morning, we did it.  His body relaxed, - he’s usually rigid with tension - his fluffy hair in my face.  Unheard of.   And then Son 1 strode in and switched on the lights: “I want to watch my DVDs.”

He watched. I got ready for work.  I went downstairs.  Tarzan was on.  Son 1 was climbing along the top of the sofa back, hoo-hoo-hoo ing.  Television of course has no influence on children’s behaviour.  On the way to The Trade Show, I passed some sheep in the fields.  A ewe lay on her stomach on the grass.   A lamb stood on the top of her back, sure-footed, walking a few tiny steps forward, and a few tiny steps back.  The ewe didn’t move.  The lamb turned round.  All without watching Tarzan.  

The Trade Show went well.  A lovely day, a lovely location. I was in linen and a black straw hat.  I bought ostrich burgers for The Man.  Back home, the boys were playing with a 3 year old friend who’d come calling.  His mum supervised upstairs while I grabbed a cup of tea and some food.  The boys had  been out to the beach, and were pretty shattered and hyper. Even in bed, Son 1 was still playing for more time before lights out.  Eventually, five books later, he passed out.