Do you know what? My Instagram lies.
Well, not totally, not properly…the same way Facebook isn’t properly evading corporation tax and I didn’t entirely eat an jumbo-bag of Mini Eggs whilst gawping at Tom Hiddlestone on the TV last night. It’s just that my Instagram feed shows our best bits, and when it includes our worst bits it’s just the picturesque ones with a nice filter. That’s what Instagram does, and it’s good at it.
If it’s behind-the-scenes madness you’re after – the blood, the tears, the endless, endless bodily waste – you need my daily ranting text messages to Tim. Ever wondered if your normal was actually normal? Read on, and don’t mind me weeping.
In the five minutes it took to hang up some wet clothes, Teddy has a) got a chair and climbed onto it, b) emptied an entire packet of Ritz crackers onto the hob, and c) crumbled some cheese into the water bottle, I mean WHAT.
I’m actually quite impressed at how much cheese he managed to get into that bottle!
YOU KNOW THAT WALLPAPER
IT’S ON SALE AGAIN.
IMAGINE THIS ON THE FAR WALL.
I’m now imagining you shouting ‘JUST IMAGINE’ at me…
You love it when I forcibly demand that you imagine things
I cannot tell Twitter this because I am deeply ashamed; I can only tell you. I just absentmindedly tried to scroll this book with my finger. Now I need to go CHOP ALL MY FINGERS OFF.
Made tomato soup and a crumpet for T’s lunch. Immediately he pours his glass of water into the soup, making it inedible. And refuses the crumpet, even once I put jam on it.
And so, naptime.
[Getting Cursed Child tickets]
OMGOSH two minutes till it opens! I don’t know how you do eBay all the time – I am freaking out
50 seconds so poised so ready
Ok there’s a random queue and I’m number 6902. Wut.
I am going to stare at it until the time passes.
I don’t know what on earth you get to do with a £100 ticket. Like, lick Harry Potter’s face?
Literally thirty seconds after we’ve struggled into our seats at the cinema, having persuaded Teddy to climb the stairs and come sit down when he cannot tear his eyes away from the screen and my hands are full so I can’t grab him, but we get there eventually and get settled with popcorn trays on laps…
‘I need a wee.’
OF COURSE YOU DO. OF. COURSE. YOU. DO.
PS, Ted just bit his tongue, and wanted me to fix it in the usual way: a rub and a kiss. I did the rub reluctantly but I have to draw the line at kissing his tongue.
There is no fury like that of a mother who ALMOST got a nap until the blasted postman rang the doorbell twice. Awake, angry, tired toddler. No sleep for anyone. OUTER DARKNESS. OUTER DARKNESS FOR THIS MAN.
Ted is singing Happy Birthday to his jumper. Festive.
The ‘we need to stop at Sainsbury’s quickly before lunch’ plan went terribly wrong. He’s sparko, I’m sat in the car park starving to death. WHAT NOW.
Resist the temptation to Drive-Thru!
HOW DID YOU KNOW I WAS RESISTING THAT TEMPTATION WITH ALL OF MY CELLS SIMULTANEOUSLY
I AM SO HUNGRY AND SOMEONE WOULD POST CHIPS THROUGH MY WINDOW IF I ASKED
I bought Ted a fish biscuit from Sainsbury’s bakery. Home now, and he’s just eaten the icing eye…and is now freaking out because the fish is blind.
This is a morally conflicted situation.
Update: He has overcome his scruples.
When ur about to captain the Victory to defeat Napoleon and ur getting so pumped
H: T hit me!
Me: T, did you hit H?
T: Thomas is a…a big bad naughty engine
Me: Is he? What’s that got to do with you hitting H?
T: Thomas hit H in the head.
Quick thinker slash diabolical genius.
H: Who are we going to visit?
Me: A nice old lady called Ma.
H: Ma? Isn’t that a planet where all the aliens live?
Me: What? Oh. No, that’s Mars.
H: Oh right.
That moment when you realise your 2YO freakishly knows all the words to Life on Mars.
‘Take a look at the –’
‘Laaaw mayn waitin’ dela wong guy’
[Just after my gum operation]
Twice yesterday T said ‘I smell your mouth’. And not like it was a good thing.
So I changed T’s disgusting diarrhoea nappy while you were there, right?
Ten minutes after you left:
‘Mummy! I did a poo in the bath and it’s weally nasty!’
Ten minutes after that:
‘Mummy! I sat down on the toilet to do a poo and there’s already some in my pants and now it’s on my finger!’
Just as we were about to leave: another dirty nappy from T.
Monday, I rename thee: faeces day. May all who sail in her have joy.
‘I ate my bowg’
‘I ate my – I ate my snotty’
‘Oh, don’t do that – that’s disgusting’.
*emphatic suddenly* ‘NO. THAT’S THE RULE.’
I made a fatal error with that cat poo, by the way.
Cleaned the carpet, then got out the hoover, but wasn’t wearing my glasses.
Hoovered over a ‘leaf’ that turned out to be the original turd.
And spread it all over the carpet again *horror face*
What a GREAT NIGHT this has been.
Yes, I was sleeping between them, and T’s feet pretty much reach H’s shoulder in this photo, and it went super well, thanks for HA HA HA.
(Previous Notes from the Trenches are here: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. It’s so weird how, even under the umbrella of Small Children, your life still changes completely all the time. Wonder where we’ll be in another six months? More vomiting, probably.)