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. I said that my baby had reflux, and they said “no, no, no.”

2. The Treat

3. Down to the river

0530. “I DON’T WANT TO LIE IN THIS POOOOOO COME AND CLEAN ME UP”  Son 2 aged 9m.   Conveying with noise what he can’t yet manage in words.   Son 1 aged three and a half joined us.  I gave Son 2 a really good feed.  Drank loads, both sides, no twisting or yanking, no fidgeting, no sudden wails.  I could cut out the Gaviscon on this feed I thought.  He’s older now, he’s more comfortable, he’s been doing so well since we stopped the thickened milk… we’ve dropped a whole dose at lunchtime, we might be able to get away with it at this first feed if we’re all quiet and careful.  Then he threw up. Gallons and gallons of it, gushing out of his mouth like a little Cathedral gargoyle in the rain.     Cushion, sleepsuit, pyjamas, carpet.   Wringing.  The Man heard it from upstairs.

Son 1 has got to the end of the lines on the sticker chart. For being good while The Man was away, for staying at the table during meals, and for asking nicely if he can get down at the end.  He can have A Treat.  We pushed him into Town in the buggy, - he was too tired to walk after his swimming lesson.  He chose a Playdoh Operation set.  Son 1 loves Playdoh,  He loves rolling and stamping and pressing and squashing.   Making cakes and biscuits. And Christmas trees and tin men.  Luckily, now he’s older, he understands not to mix up the colours even though the marbling looks pretty,  he never leaves little flakes of it everywhere, and it doesn’t end up embedded in the lounge carpet and everyone’s clothes.   And I am Marie of Romania.  

Went out running for the first time since The Man went away last week.  Down to the bridge over the river and back.   It was hard, but I was running down into a Northerly… and it must be nearly two weeks since I last went out.  Returned alive, feeling very fit and healthy, and only the bright red heat of my face to suggest it had been more of a grind than usual.