I love reading these ‘Twenty-Six Text Messages You Must See Before You Die’ listicles. And one of the reasons I love them is that they’re proof that people actually send normal text messages to their friends and significant others. They organise social events and discuss dinner. They flirt. They do not, as a general rule, give an hourly account of the bodily waste they’ve come up against lately.
You know whose text messages do? Mine. Poor Tim. AND POOR ME, READERS. POOR ME.
(Just kidding. I laughed my little head off reading this evidence of my strange, frantic, toddler-driven life, and I think I’ll laugh more once this phase is done.)
Wee in library toilet! *thumbs up*
Poo in library pants! *thumbs down*
It’s like Gladiator, but with faeces.
So Hen found your Reece’s lip balm and has been sneakily licking it all morning. I’ve been saying ‘DON’T lick daddy’s lip balm!’ a lot.
Just now I asked him what he was doing, and he said what sounded like ‘I licking daddy’s bum’. Let’s hope that one doesn’t go public.
I forrealz just cooked a tea towel along with my chips.
Me: ‘I need to get ready, Henry. You’ll have to wait till Daddy gets home to ask him.’
[Henry presses the iPad button for Siri.]
Henry: ‘HELLO. HELLO. I NEED TO SPEAK TO TIMOTHY.’
From the bedroom, quite distinctly: ‘oh, CWAP’. Whoops.
Talking to Hen about senses.
‘What do we use for listening?’
‘No, ears. Ears are for listening. What’s your nose for?’
‘Smelling, actually. What do we use for looking?’
‘Your eyes. What are your feet for?’
‘Shoes and socks.’
Just poked my head around the door and saw Henry dragging Teds down the stairs by the foot. So I dropped my phone on our hard floor and ran.
Downside: poor phone. It’s ok, but it was lucky.
Upside: definitive proof that I love my children more than my phone.
I’m now letting him eat from my Muller Corner using his hands. Hashtag desperation.
From nowhere, today: ‘Hey mama, bees don’t have willies’ –?!
Forgot to tell you Teds pulled the ladder down on top of himself this morning – and it was by the stairs, so he fell backwards DOWN THE STAIRS with the ladder on top of him. Heart attack city.
- Yikes. Is he ok?
Amazingly, yes. Hard as nails, this boy.
Just banged my head on the corner of the car boot so hard I am literally strapping the boys in with tears streaming down my face.
Why can’t I just be a suffragette and have Mary Poppins be brilliant with my children?
This guy woke up at 5.45am: bought 20 more mins with a bottle, and 20 more with him trashing our room.
He’s just got to Only Sitting On Your Face Will Please Me stage.
‘Do a wee, ball! Time for you to do a wee!’
[puts on deep voice for ball] ‘No wees coming, thank you.’
He made it to the top. *horror face*
– He is his brother’s brother.
19 July (6pm, FYI)
I’m coming home! Via Tesco.
– How soon is too soon to put Teddy to bed? He seems like he’s nearing the end of his tether.
-You are a wonder woman.
– In case you didn’t know.
Found an empty bottle, pulled down your shirt, got himself settled.
‘Whass Teddy doin’?’
‘I don’t know, what is he doing?’
‘I sink he’s pretending to be a sea cow.’
‘Where on earth did that water come from?’ I said, watching Teddy splash in a puddle on the floor. ‘Seriously, there are no bottles nearby…and it’s not sick…’
Wee. He’d made a splash-pad out of his own wee.
From now on I will only be accepting emails addressed to ‘Rachel The Virgin Jeffcoat, Mother of Winter’, in case you were wondering why yours keep bouncing.
(You can see previous Notes from the Trenches here, here, here and here – and the quote formatting with this blog style is pretty gross, but I don’t have time to fix it now, so let’s all just agree to not mind.)