If I ever come across like parenting multiples, blogging, commenting, writing, sleeping eight uninterrupted hours at night, dealing fairly with disputes over custody of toys and the dummy, cooking dinner every night, shagging LS and working three days a week is easy in any way at all, I do apologise.
In fact, some of the items I just listed don’t really happen all that often, but I’ll leave you to work out which ones between yourselves.
It’s hard work making it look in public like I’ve got my proverbial sh-t together and like I’m not narrowly avoiding Child Services and drowning in an eclectic mix of spew, poop, wee and leftovers.
Actually, most days I feel like I’m multitasking like Shiva on amph.etamines.
It’s like a duck gliding through a pond. Peaceful from above but whirling dervish from underneath.
Anyway, in the absence of anything of any value whatsoever to say (but in the presence of above comprehensive list of free time killers of increasingly mobile children, three jobs and voluntarily deciding to write more stuff for people because I think I’m secretly in love with my keyboard and I heart explaining things) I’ll share my morning thus far (it’s early afternoon here, incidentally right now).
Just for kicks.
I woke up, as I often do to one of my two beloved inbuilt alarm clocks.
More specifically, I woke up to the dulcet tones of Naan royally pissed that the toys in her crib no longer thrill her like they used to now their ears are all damp from repeated oral mashing. In search of greener pastures, she’s also gone and got one leg jammed in the rails. She could get it out, but that would involve changing direction, and she’s too cross to concede.
Saag, meanwhile, is unhelpfully fuelling the noise by giggling like a loon at Naan’s predicament from the other crib. Oh, and she’s cleverly surrounded herself in vomit, probably from overnight hijinks involving getting stuck on her tummy. and then electing to sleep that way.
Awesome.
One soothed Naan, two bottles, two good-morning-mama poopy bum changes and one linen wash later, I sit down.
Feeling all snazzy, I begin to indulge in coffee with the milk frothed whilst stylishly garbed in my second-best dressing gown before I remember that there’s people coming at 8.30. It’s 8.20.
I hurriedly throw a tracksuit on and Naan promptly vomits on the left knee just to keep her eye in. Even more awesome, they’re here. I answer the door with Bed Hair, and smelling of recycled milk.
This chain of events is then followed by an hour of people wandering about Chez MII exhaustively measuring every window in the house as I surreptitiously try to brush my teeth with my finger because they feel kind of fuzzy and now that I think of it, I don’t think I got to brush them earlier on account of Siren Naan.
I chug yet more coffee.
I run the burstingly full dishwasher, and empty same. The people go. Bundling spawn into their pusher, I make a dash for the supermarket for bread, milk and paid-for coffee only to find they burned the beans.
Yum.
I re-feed spawn and take the golden opportunity presented by their post-feed nap-deficient (neither will sleep if there’s something interesting afoot. People with measuring tapes qualify aplenty) slump to imprison them in the only safe location (their rockers, strapped in to within an inch of their lives. A Baby Jail, aka playpen is sorely required) and bathe. Oh, and I brush my teeth. I omit item ‘hair’ on grounds that it is Bloody Short anway.
I then unpack the groceries from an hour ago (whoopsie). I knew there was something I forgot to do.
Against my better judgement, I Release the Kids from Rockerville. I then spend a merry half an hour chasing them around my loungeroom as they spew liberally and without regard for whiteness of ill-chosen carpet.
I bath the little buggers. They get sleepy.
Naptime!
I take the chance to do another load of washing and clean the not-so-fresh floors. Unfortunately, neither are the loos. I clean them, too.
I vacuum at nearly breakneck speed.
Tempting fate, I log on to the Internet with my geriatric computer and begin to type a blog entry. I stop this endeavour as even more inane than usual.
I start writing articles, instead. Well, at least I write a title before I hear yelling.
Getting the Indian Takeaways up, I experience another noteworthy bum-change twins-who-like-to-roll-over-while-covered-in-excrement-style. They’re developed the dreaded buttrash while asleep.
Super.
Cue nappy-free time x 2 on giant rubber mat which is regrettably not giant enough for children who have figured out getting from item ‘toys’ to item ‘power cord’ or ‘bookshelf’ in two seconds flat whilst simultaneously making the day’s feeds (solids AND bottles).
Throw in the expected dashes to prevent poopy or pee-pee on newly purchased carpet and save books from sad damp fate in curious gobs.
I Feed Spawn. Again.
As a bonus item, I am liberally sprayed with milk and saliva by an eternally-cheery Saag who has discovered raspberries, oral fart noises and the fun of doing them with a hearty mouthful and watching the result land on Mama (and her poor spectacles) in a fine mist.
I then giggle when the little sh!t follows the not-so-cute Milk Mist with appealing ’oink-oink’ pig snorts. They’re appropriate, I suppose. I briefly idly wonder if LS and I should be teaching her better tricks than impersonating farm animals, farts and spraying milk around a room, or if that’s what school is for in a few years.
I put the now-cooled feeds away in the fridge.
Naptime again.
Woo HOOO! Get back to blog entry, after getting washing in off the line. Omit putting it away because of errant washed snotty tissue fragments on everything. Leave it in the basket to fester whilst I contemplate my next move.
Finish entry on blog, only to notice that spell check has even more gremlins than usual and has stuck every second word together. Swear creatively whilst attempting to repair the damage. Reread post and realise that I am even more boring than I realised. I’ve gone rather beige in my old age.
Sigh. I need a strong drink. They’ll wake up again soon.
