My partner’s welcome home is ongoing. He spent the weekend going out carousing with his mates and is now paying the price. They went to Bilbao and my mum was very impressed by his description of how he was going to make a beeline for the Guggenheim, etc, etc. “Did you go to the Guggenheim?” I inquired on his return. “We did walk there first thing,” he said, “and took some photos of the outside before retiring to a bar.” In his book, bars are high culture. He returned home somewhat delicate at midnight on Sunday and since then has endured a night of teething [not his own] followed by a night of vomit [again, not his own]. Luckily for him, he was not in the direct line of fire. I was. Twice. There was then a slight lull on Wednesday night before daughter one loomed into the room at around 6.30am, saying she had succumbed to what we had previously put down to teething. This was on the day of the school disco so she was not best pleased. Also, she knows that being off sick is not all it’s cracked up to be now mummy works from home.
Daughter three was looking a bit worried at the time as she had been planning for weeks for the school disco. Indeed, her entire outfit, down to knickers and socks, had been lying at the foot of her bed for days. She is the world’s best planner. She always has a project on the go. Next stop – her birthday in May. Meanwhile, daughter two was preparing in other ways for the school disco. She has found a recipe for an avocado face mask and has also been experimenting with her hair. She is very experimental. On Wednesday, we had a picnic outside to celebrate the nice weather. “Don’t eat the grass,” she warned the baby. “It doesn’t taste very good.” “How do you know?” I asked suspiciously. “I tried it once – just to check,” she said as she peddled a toddler bike round the garden with one of the slightly startled looking guinea pigs sitting in the back on a mound of hay.