My frantic text messages to Timothy these days are a little more to do with impending injury and a little less to do with bodily fluids. Which is…nice, I suppose?
Still feel bad about that assaulted goat. If you’re reading this, Perky, I hope you can sleep at night.
So, you know that plastic ducky Henry has adopted, and how it’s not really supposed to be a bath toy, and has a hole on its underside? You can squirt water out of it, and it looks disturbingly like it’s peeing. Well, today Henry worked out that it was quite easy to get the squirty water into his mouth, and started sucking from the source. THIS IS WRONG.
– At least he can have a career as a duck milker.
He has just pulled his towel into the bath, and is drinking from it. He thinks that when I tell you about this, you will say ‘POW’. Please try to be more stern than that.
In the wake of the Baftas, I think you should grow a beard. That is all.
Ok, for future reference: the station car park is REALLY VERY FAR INDEED from Argos. Like, a ten minute walk even without Henry picking up every cigarette butt.
What an astonishingly good morning for Henry to catastrophically butt-explode in the bath. It is fish and tomato poo, just to make it nicer.
Wish you could’ve heard him just now telling me which bit of James Bond I missed: ‘mama ohhhh choo choo uh-oh’ (the train came through the wall).
Henry decided he wanted a piggy back this afternoon. From a goat.
NOTHING IS BEING DONE.
Milestone: First item deliberately put down the toilet. Urgh.
Henry the freaking genius just melted the bottom of the slow cooker. He’s also broken my computer and drenched the kitchen floor twice, once with hot water [which miraculously missed him, safety fans]. He’s now in his cot so I can not look at him for ten mintues. And the living room looks like this. And I am so tired I could die. Tuesday can naff off.
That’s dirty dishwater he’s drinking in that photo, FYI.
Milestone: let it be known that at lunchtime today, our son learned how to squeeze out a fart on purpose, for lols. Oh, boys.
Hen in bed, and just started sobbing like he’d chopped off his finger in the cot bars. I ran downstairs. Turns out choo choo had fallen onto the floor. Turns out choo choo has no respect for women who might go into EARLY LABOUR when faced with potential amputations.
I think I’ll (probably) miss this, one day (right?). Assuming I never actually have to deal with an amputation, that is.