1.   The Din In The Dark

2.   Sale Rails

3.  The Lunchtime Lull

Oh. What. A. Night.  The Man was already in with Son 2 aged 15m.  Son 1 aged 4y 3m arrived… whenever… clambered over the top of me and plopped in the Big Bed on the other side.  At 3am Son 2 started the loudest screaming fit yet.  Louder, louder, more and more hysterical.  Code for: I WANT MUMMY AND IT IS THE END OF THE WORLD GET HER GET HER GET HER.  It must be an evolutionary thing.  If he makes that noise just because he’s got the wrong parent in bed with him, he’s got to be able to fell bears with a shout under real attack.   I went down.  It took 15 minutes to calm him down; he had so completely lost it.  I slept with him, and he spent the next five hours waking every… whenever… and sobbing his heart out till I soothed him back to sleep.  I planned to get him back into his cot as soon as he went into his deep sleep - he didn’t.  Every time I moved away even an inch he shot out a hand to find me.   I vaguely heard Son 1 and The Man upstairs with the telly, and eventually went up.  It was 0830.  The latest I have slept in a very long time. 

And of course today was the day I wanted to be out of the house at 0830 to get to the Big Town for The Sales.  I skipped the books, skipped the shower, skipped breakfast, skipped dressing children, did my hair, put my make up on and left in 15 minutes.  I called into The Hotel to get Granny’s jumper which needed taking back.  Granny came too.  We did Monsoon - little boy trousers, little boy tops, odds ands ends, we did TK Maxx, we did Jaeger, we did Lakeland.  And we were back within an hour and a half. 

After Son 2’s lunch we packed up the boys and set off for The Square.  It was brutally, bitterly cold, with a gale force Easterly freeze-blasting skin and clothing.  “I’m getting draughted everywhere!” complained Son 1, so we rolled him up in his blanket and sat him in the battered MacLaren.  I tried to  pull the blanket down over his face so he could see.  “Leave it,” he said. “It’s cosy in here.”  By the time we got to The Square we had both boys asleep.  The Man, Granny, Granddad and I had wine, starters, pizzas and coffees while both children slept on.  Never in our Family History have we achieved this.  Granddad paid.  The waitress said they’d box up Son 1’s meal for him.  As we left, they made him a new pizza because his other one had dried out.  When we got home he ate every scrap, including his dough balls.  An honourable mention for PIzza Express.  They didn’t have to do that, but it made a big difference.

1. White linen

2. Pushing pirates

3. Three and three quarters

Four years ago, expecting Son 1 (now 3y 9m) and knowing nothing about children at all, I bought a little pair of white linen trousers in the Monsoon sale.  I bought 3m - 6m, because it didn’t occur to me that a September-born child would not really need white linen trousers between January and March.  But Son 1 wore them.  To Baby Yoga.  In the cosytoe. To breastfeeding group in the hot health centre room.  I adored them; he outgrew them, I put them away, not knowing if I’d ever have use for them again.  I got them out for Son 2 (now aged 10m,) and, being a bit smaller than Son 1,  he’s been in them for months.  He was christened in them.  He has stained the waistband orange (some puree containing betacarotene.) He’s worn them on the beach.  I put them on him today.  For a boy with a gastric bug, who ate a lot yesterday and hadn’t yet “produced”, the waist band was a bit tight.  Too tight.  I took off the white linen trousers, and put them at the bottom of the stairs to our room, heading up to the outgrown pile.  They can’t be given away, because of the mark.  They can’t be thrown away, because I can’t be parted from them.  Is pressing and framing baby clothes to keep on the wall normal behaviour, or should I just stick to photos?

I got back to The Office today, but left early.  Son 2 is coming on, he ate normal food for lunch, he did well at tea.  Son 1 was very cross about going to nursery.  At bedtime, Son 2 was sitting in the bath, playing with Son 1’s toy pirates.  “Put a pirate on the edge,” said The Man. “He loves pushing them off.”  So my game became: get all six pirates on the edge of the bath before Son 2 gets a chance to knock any off.  Son 1 joined in, sitting on my knee, a great big barrier between me and Son 2.  They played together, Son 1 laughing and laughing, Son 2 giggling and giggling.  Delicious.     

Son 1’s behaviour is getting wilder and wilder.  For him, that is.  He is nowhere near in the same ASBO league as some of his friends, and I should always make that clear.  But the incessant fights, hitting, raspberries,  and my endless streams of “No!” “Don’t!” and “Stop!” are making me annoy myself.  He’s gone loopy because Son 2’s been so ill and has had all my time.  Because he’s so articulate and sassy in his conversation, it never quite registers that this is someone who can clearly remember wearing nappies and sleeping in a cot.  This evening, snuggling down in his bed with him, I decided to have one of those mummy-child gentle conversations where, with careful, loving questions and finely-tuned listening skills, I analyse his ambiguous replies and slowly get to the root of the issue.  “I know you feel angry inside when you’re being naughty.  What’s in your head when you’re feeling like that?”  “Hit Son 2.  Throw him in the dustbin.”  He’s talking metaphorically, of course.