I picked the children up from playgroup last night, and was informed that K had clattered into another child at playgroup. I was greeted by a cheery girl, with a red, grazed and bashed cheek. She was fine but I told her I’d put some special cream (Tea Tree antiseptic) on when we got home and she would feel better.
We returned home and I did but as it stung a bit K got a bit upset. Cuddles were deployed and dinner was made. The children ate dinner and spoke to their mum, via Skype, who is in the US on work bidness. All good.
Dinner was eaten, and after yoghurts were consumed, I let the children have a chocolate mini-roll as a treat. K had been in the wars and I couldn’t just give her one without giving T one could I?
That’s when it started. Full on Toddlergeddon.
Within minutes the children were running around the house with balloons on sticks, telling me it was sports day. I suggested they stopped running and have some quiet time but T told me he couldn’t. ‘Daddy. I can’t stop running. That’s just the way it is.’ K giggled and ran after him shouting ‘wibble wobble’.
A minute later T told me he had eaten poo poo. Obviously he hadn’t but he decided to tell me this because he was being silly. K told T that it wasn’t poo poo but ca-ca because, obviously, this mini-roll had suddenly TURNED HER SPANISH.
At the point at which I was thinking, ‘oh no, it’s all gone off like a frog in a sock’ things hyped up. Suddenly they wanted to go in the garden, in the dark, to find scary ghosts and to mow the lawn. It was dark. And we didn’t do that. K grabbed the broom, which I had out after sweeping up some of the dinner time detritus, and started to brush my hair with it. Then she offered to brush my teeth with it.
The children decided to swap pyjamas. T wanted to climb into a 2 year olds sleepsuit, and K wanted to wear T’s dinosaur pyjamas. Then they brushed their teeth. Except T brushed K’s and K brushed T’s. While I was being told I was a naughty daddy for not brushing mine. Which I duly did.
Then there was another 5 minute conversation about David Bowie. T decided that the bouncy castle in the conservatory was to be bounced on, and then he came out and asked me to pretend he was a parcel, and that I should post him. In the post box. K wanted this too. I said that the post office was closed and we’d craft a pretend post box at the weekend, and I got a broom up my arse as a thank you.
A train track had to be built immediately. The pyjamas got swapped over again. K wanted T to pretend he was a baby. T wanted K to pretend she was an owl. Both wanted me to pretend to be mummy. I did my best Scottish accent and, again, got a broom up my arse as a thank you. I sounded like Miss Hooley.
Time for stories. Some quiet time please. Sit on my lap and we’ll read the…
Oh help, oh no. My teeth are being brushed with the broom.
Let’s go upstairs and read up there.
Or, alternatively, lets race up and down the stairs twenty times. With the balloons on sticks as lanterns. Did you lock the door daddy? Yes. T. Do you need the toilet before you got to bed T? No Daddy. Do YOU need to use the toilet before you go to bed daddy? K laughs. Ha ha ha, daddy did a poo poo.
Obviously the effects of the mini roll are wearing off as she is now back to speaking English.
Upstairs, through the door. Two stories. Okay, three stories. On my lap. Kisses goodnight. Lights out, bedtime all. Nunnite, sweet dreams and I love you.
All quiet. All peaceful. Somehow.
I went downstairs. I started tidying up, and then stopped for a second.
I sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, with my back against the dishwasher and I started crying, and then I was sobbing which then became huge great wails which I tried to subdue by covering my mouth with a tea towel. Massive, stinging tears running down my face and dripping onto my shirt.
Because I fucking miss this so much.
Thanks for reading.