One of my favourite things about these Notes from the Trenches posts – aside from the fact that I think a good bit of unfiltered honesty makes all of us feel a little less insane – is that when I look through my last six months of frantic text messages, I can see how much we’ve changed. Every half-year seems to come with its own theme, and it’s rarely the same as the last one. Does this mean there will come a day where I’m not texting Tim about unbridled public faeces disasters? Oh, I live in hope.
This last six months I have mostly learned: that my tolerance for three-year-old tantrums or five-year-old stubbornness when combined with pregnancy is at the sort of miniscule level not much higher than, um, zero. And that our pitched battles over the heating will last until one of us dies (then I will keep turning it up from beyond the grave, cackling).
Look, see: your normal is normal too.
[It’s the day of the Brexit referendum result: I have cried all morning, and run off to the woods to avoid humanity. Then this.]
A good day all round. T also got dipped in. The bike fell over with him in it.
Danger of taking boys to Sports Day:
‘Look, that fat man in the grey is going to lose’.
‘SHE’S really slow. Go faster lady!’
H: I don’t want a bath today.
Me: you have to, you’re dirty
[disappears for fifteen minutes; reappears naked]
H: Mummy, I accidentally wiped myself all over with wipes so now I’m clean.
– How was your day? IKEA go ok?
I think you mean ‘your-KEA’, according to T.
‘No, it’s not screen time. That’s later.’
‘AH. I GONNA PUNCH EVERYSING.’
(5 mins later)
‘Mummy, come hang out wiz me while I poo’.
Another poo in pants morning – in Holland and Barrett, no spare pants, toilets a 10-min walk away [horror face].
We managed to get there and I remembered I’d just bought some face wipes. So he got cleaned up with tea tree oil (!) and went pantsless (and, presumably, slightly stinging) to the car. Unpleasant.
YES HEATING NAZI IT WAS TIME
Right, just for that I’m stapling the spare duvet to ours so that you overheat to death at night.
[On the way home from a funeral]
Right, done and dusted.
WHOA, sorry, unfortunate idiom to use on the way to the crematorium! Pretend I didn’t say that.
We got out after all (they played nicely for an hour then tried to kill each other with colanders. Fresh air it was).
T has caught our putrid throat. He kept waking up and crying, and wasn’t awake enough to tell me why (in the end his coughing tipped me off). Eventually he woke up more and I said ‘T, what’s the matter?’ He screwed up his little red face and croaked ‘Things…just DON’T GO WIGHT’. How existential.
I’m getting an early night.
[40 mins later]
THE CROWN IS SO GOOD I AM CRYING
– Thought you were getting an early night? 🙂
I only watched one. I’m about to turn in and feel sad about George VI’s lung cancer and excellent kingmanship.
PS, I solved the mystery of the magic decreasing heating.
I forgot to tell you: that thing that has been inevitable since September happened yesterday, when I apparently sent T to nursery wearing one of his shoes and one of H’s.
Pull up next to the car and notice a weird white stain on the door. Where did that come from, I think. I lick my finger and see if it comes off. No joy. I click the unlock button and nothing happens.
THEN I REALISE IT’S AN IDENTICAL MAZDA TWO SPACES AWAY FROM MY CAR, TO WHICH I JUST APPLIED MY SPITTLE.
Phantom Menace, and T sees Jar Jar Binks.
‘Um, is he a dinosaur? Or a frog?’
Unfortunately I haven’t got a clue what’s going on so I can’t answer their m a n y questions.
– Simple – he’s an alien!
Oh, well I knew that one. It’s my ‘someone’s attacking that planet for some reasons and these magic Jedis are involved because more reasons’ bits that are lacking somewhat.
T’s poo arrived. In two parts. In his pyjamas.
I only saw/evacuated one part, and stepped backwards onto the large, squishy other.
Thank you, washable bath mats.
Do I Need The Loo Or Am I Being Kicked In The Anus From The Inside: The Pregnancy Story
THIS IS THE WORST ONE BY FAR:
T: where’s your special willy?
Me: my what
T: your special willy
Me: it’s called a vagina, remember?
T: [puts head down on my lap] I can’t hear it
Me: yeah, no, they don’t sing or anything
T: they don’t?!
– You guys talk too much about private parts…
If he asks, I have to tell him the truth! Even though it makes me do a full-body cringe.
I just want you to know I came thiiiis close to McDonald’s this lunchtime, but heroically refrained.
– Lunch? It’s only 11.30am!
Yeah, that’s when we have lunch. I’m hungry all the time; it makes no odds to me.
Nice relaxing bath (eyeroll).
Yes, they’re both sat on a stool right next to me, having carefully moved my phone and book somewhere else, and are telling me about their favourite Pokemon/poking my giant belly. Just sign me up for a Lush advert, eh?
Previous Notes from the Trenches are here. I’ve been sending screechy pixels through the air since H was tiny. Well, you have to. Why should Tim miss out on all the fun?