1.  The Morning After The Night Before

2.  Air Pressure

3.  The Bear Garden

Jaysus if it’s like this the day after one of them is 2, what’s it going to be like when they’re 18?  Son 1 aged 4y 11m had a lie in, Son 2 aged 2 was live and kicking at 7am despite his crackalacking day yesterday and an extremely late night. The Man and I were washing up, rinsing bottles and gathering up leftover paper in bin bags. As far as I could tell, the tally was one bottle of vintage cava, one bottle of white wine, two cartons of pineapple juice and a heck of a lot of stubbies. We let them have a lazy day. They watched Son 1’s new Charlie and The Chocolate Factory DVD.  Yes I  know, but he had a hard week. He had to go to school on the Wednesday with the Best Weather this year, his chosen Party Entertainer dumped us, and he had to go to school on Son 2’s birthday. And it was from Oxfam so I was Saving The World.   

We planned to go to the library after lunch, but a parcel arrived from Younger Sister for Son 2, and Son 1, sick with excitement and sibling rivalry, shrieked so loudly I nearly had him adopted.  It was like he nail-gunned a knitting needle into my ear.  The whole side of my face went numb.  I picked him, carried him up two flights of stairs and hurled him into his bed, closing the blinds and shutting the door. Son 2 and I went into The Town, but every step made my ear hurt, so we came back. I suspect the problem has more to do with my rampant upper respiratory congestion than his high-frequency blast bombs, but I still felt assaulted.  Son 2 fell asleep in the Big Pram on the way back, Son 1 was asleep in his room, so The Man and I had Daytime To Ourselves. We worked on the fish tank. He fiddled with the pipe to the skull and the treasure chest, while I read fascinating facts about the plants he’d bought. We had about three minutes’ Quality Time before Son 2 woke up.

Son 1 pulled out last year’s Birthday Party things. He wanted another Teddy Bear’s picnic, so we let them play outside while I did some food.  The Man was admirable. Spontaneous decision to go outside again - taken well. Arrival of 30+ Teddy Bears from the plastic bag under Son 2’s cot.  Taken Very Well.  Pirate and Peter Pan flags and flagging hung from fences and washing line. Taken Very Well. Children hooting with excitement during meal, Taken Very Well.  The Teddy Bears had salad, green beans, new potatoes, and leftover chicken and cocktail sausages from yesterday.  They went to be at Six O’clock because they were Tired Little Teddy Bears.  Son 1 and Son 2 went considerably later. Taken Very Well.

1.  Splashback

2.  Flashback

3.  Backtrack

Son 2 aged 20m came in the bath with me this morning.  This was a Good Thing. From when he was tiny, Son 2 lay on his feeding pillow watching me in the shower.  Then he sat up and watched me i in the shower. Then he crawled towards the bath.  Then he pulled himself up.  And then he used to play in the water, every morning, while I showered and washed my hair.  Always. At some point recently he wouldn’t come in with me any more.  I can’t remember when. Son 1 aged 4y 8m had started watching DVDs downstairs instead of Ben 10-style CItv upstairs… and Son 2 was interested in some of them.  Or he was playing with toys.  I’ve given him the choice, and off he’s gone.  This morning we read 5 stories, and he decided to come in with me.  Played with his new watering cans, didn’t want to get out. Nice to have him back.

I went for coffee with a Colleague on maternity leave.  An eight month old little girl in the pushchair with us.  I held her, and realised I simply couldn’t remember either of the boys at that age.  So I’ve been back a year in the Blog.  http://mumsnet.com/blogs/serenedays/2008/06/09/before-7am/ On June 9 2008 I’d just had an awful night with Son 2 screaming for me, so bad that I’d left him alone in the small hours and gone downstairs to make a cup of tea.  The following day I took him to a cranial osteopath.  Now he sleeps through the night, every night.  He can cry when I put him down, but never for more than 5 minutes. And today he went to sleep without crying when I left.  It all passes.

 Son 1 is mad about a Nick Sharrett book called “You Choose.”  It came from Nursery in his Bookstart box, and we start off choosing where we are going to go, what sort of house we will live in, who our family and friends will be, our furniture, clothes, food, transport, jobs, hobbies and bed.  Well, I choose, and Son 1 says “I’m coming with you.” Tonight we chose a tree house in a forest near a village.  Then we did Pumpkin Soup, A Pipkin of Pepper and Delicious. Then I asked: “Did you get the book for me?”  Oxfam, again, had a book in the window about a child with Son 2’s (unusual) name.  http://mumsnet.com/blogs/serenedays/2009/04/29/well-done-mummy/ Son 1 and I had it from the library when I was pregnant.  It may have been where I first got the name idea.   I’d asked Wonder Nanny to get it.  “Yes.”  “Did you read it?” “Yes.”  What are the chances of Oxfam, a few hundred yards from our house, putting two children’s books in the window, both featuring the same very unusual boy’s name?   There is glue holding this world together.

1.  Lost Passport

2.  Hair Loss

3.  Lost Bottle

The children’s passports were in a Safe Place.  At Easter, I moved them from the Safe Place and put them Somewhere Else.  Deep in the night, I realised that I had absolutely no idea where Somewhere Else is.  I came downstairs and hunted without success.  We need the passports on Saturday.  In the morning I confessed to The Man.   In front of the boys, little was said, but we looked and looked. The Man went to work.  A Wednesday Friend’s sister-in-law is gravely ill.  We went to the other’s for lunch.    Son 1 aged 4y 7m disappeared with Best Friend.  Son 2 aged 19m came downstairs with Best Friend’’s Mother and me.  The air was coloured by the missing passports.  Best Friend’s Mother says she always puts important things in Safe Places and then can’t find them.  Very normal. Taking them from Safe Places and putting them Somewhere Else is a new approach.    A phone call during our visit from a colleague at The Office.  With Good News.  Then a text from a colleague at The Office, also with Good News.  They were all having a Good Time.  Son 2, usually interested in Best Friend’s Mother’s dog, howled and cried whenever it went near him. In the end, he clambered up on me. Son 2, I mean, not the dog.

After our visit we went to the hairdresser’s.  It was Son 2’s first proper hair cut.  His baby hair was long, wispy, thin, blond, tufty over the ears, a kiss curl at the back, his scalp caked white with calamine cream over raised scabs, and, this morning’s final touch, a thick landing strip of maple syrup hardened on top.  They sat in neighbouring cars, Son 1 watching Kipper, Son 2 watching Fireman Sam.   Son 2 was interested at first, but then just wanted to get out.  The hairdresser saved me his kiss curl, and thinks it will probably grow back.  “Look Son 1,” I said. “Our baby is gone.  Now we have a little boy.” And then, so Son 1 didn’t feel neglected: “And you’re now a big boy, don’t you look smart.” His hairdresser picked up the cue. “How old are you now Son 1?” He pointed at me to answer. “He’s four now. Did you think he was so big he must be five?” “Only four?” the wise woman gasped. “You’ve sat so still I thought you were seven.” Later, in the bath, as I recounted this to The Man, Son 1 confided “All my life I have wanted to be seven.”

I hunted before they went to bed, I hunted after.  The shelving is looking much tidier, and bags of books have been liberated for Oxfam.  The Man was trying to help, and getting out packets of photos from a cupboard.  He gazed fondly at a pile of black-and-whites. ”Look, don’t I look like Son 2 there.” “Look, don’t I look like Son 1 in that one?”   And then suddenly I moved some children’s books and there were two passports, on a shelf. I have no memory at all of putting them there.  There was a bottle of champagne in the fridge waiting for an occasion.  It isn’t there now.

1.  Box

2.  Tea

3.  Rain

Son 1 aged 4y 7m wanted a Big Box to make a den from.  One of his friends has one. So I lugged a huge dishwasher box home from The Office on Monday, and we made it into a house this morning.  A stable door, a window with shutters, and a skylight were my contributions. Son 1 has written his name on it and made a picture to hang up wonkily inside.  Son 2 aged 19m has drawn on the sides in felt tip pen.  “Boh!” he said, pointing. “Boh!” They were supposed to be getting on with playing while I made pancakes for breakfast.  It worked, kind of.   I struggle with pancake making. I burn or undercook, I never get the oil right, I’m rubbish at flipping them.  Wonder Nanny knocks out perfect examples every time.  She doesn’t use oil. “It’s a non-stick pan.”  I never understood that logic, but this morning I went with it. No oil.  Perfect pancakes.  They gobbled them up. 

Son 2 is still in hell with chickenpox. He woke up this morning boiling hot, scratching and howling.  I gave him milk, put him in a bicarb bath and let the shower run on his back.   One set of Wednesday friends didn’t come today, but the Mother was ill, so I’m hoping that as the reason.  We walked into town to meet the other. There was a book about a character with Son 2’s (unusual) name in Oxfam, so I bought it.  And Son 1 had been promised a Pirate Lego set for being good while Son 2 got all the Mummy Time. “Boog!” said Son 2.  We had coffee at one end of town, and then another coffee at the other.  I spent most of the afternoon putting the Pirate Lego set together. That’ll be why the box said 6 - 12 then. I got fed up with how much time I was spending on Pages 1 - 37 instructions, with two other sections to follow. Son 1 said “Well done Mummy.  You’re doing a great job.  Thank you very much for buying me my pirates.”  The pat on the head did the trick, and I persevered.  Again, I started grumbling.  I wanted to spend time with Son 1 and Son 2, not fish poxy two-bit Lego brick things out of piles of other poxy two-bit brick things. ”Well done Mummy,” said Son 1.  “Thank you for helping me.”  My heart sang.  There was a knock on the door.  The Wednesday Mummy, taking pity on me because The Man’s Business Trip goes On and On, had brought round some home-made sauce for us.  “Tee!” pointed Son 2 at the pan as the pasta boiled. 

Books and Bath and Bed was therefore earlier and more successful than other days this week. I am still starting off with a glass of wine. Son 2 and I did his books. I wanted Tiddler. He insisted on “Oceans,” which is pictures of dolphins and sharks and whales and seahorses and jellyfish etc. In the bath I washed his hair to get today’s calamine out before I slathered him again. He screamed.   Surely this is the worst his spots can get. He has great flaming lines of them down his back and his groin is a mess. “Wee wee,” he said, sitting in the bicarb-ed bath.  Wee wee is wee, but it is also willy. Translation: “My willy hurts.”  And then he pointed up at the shower head and said:  “Rain.”