Typing with one hand

I am typing this with one hand, such is my devotion to blogging/need for some sense of connection with the outside world. I had hoped to retire to bed after the school run today, but the baby doesn’t seem to want to. Today he will only go to sleep if I dance around the kitchen to Cheryl Cole. Last night we did the Disco Fever CD as I am now heartily fed up with Cheryl. It was that or Alvin and the Chipmunks and I can only tolerate about five seconds of Alvin [this is three seconds more than I can last with Spongebob’s greatest hits, though]. Bonkers daughter joined me and we practised some disco moves. I’m not sure if the bonkers one thinks I am a great dancer and one who should be studied intently or an object of amusement. Meanwhile, I am trying to show her I am stiung after her comment that she would like me to be 10 years younger so I can “jump up and down more”.

Of course, we started the morning in the customary fashion – five minutes late for school after big girl daughter disappeared at the last minute  for an emergency poo and then wanted to provide a long analysis on its consistency. The woman on school reception who we see almost every morning as we arrive late sighed as normal and I think may even have rolled her eyes. I think she considers me an abject failure, but to me just getting to school at all is an amazing achievement. I could get up earlier, but as the baby is not sleeping due possibly to the weather I can barely raise the energy to move from the bed before 7.15. No-one else wants to get up either, particularly big girl daughter, who is still campaigning to be cuddled up “all through the night” every night. I have arranged for her sisters to have “sleepovers” in their bedrooms with her, but it is not working. Meanwhile, the baby has his worst crying times in th evening when, of course, I have to get everyone to  bed and my partner  and I are at our most tiired. I put him down and walked away after feeling the need to scream at one point last night [as all the guides tell you]. What they don’t tell you is that your three overly caring daughters will then rush to pick him up, which means you have to envigilate. Rebel daughter offered last night to stay up extra late to look after the baby “to give you and daddy a rest”. “I’m quite old now, you know,” she said patiently. She is 10. I am redoubling my attempts at patience in order to raise myself up to her standards. 





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