Jesus H Christ, the honeymoon is over. The babe woke at 4, which was ok until after I fed him, when he sprayed shit across the bedroom with a force reminiscent of Linda Blair. Nothing like wiping liquid baby poo off the side of your wardrobe in the wee small hours to start the day off on the right foot. I hoped he'd sleep at least until 6, but he was awake again at 5 and spent the next two hours alternately screaming, feeding and dozing for just long enough to send me into a grumpy dreamland full of rage at the shouty infant and the tossing turning farting man next to me breathing rancid night breath in my face. The kid had his Lego confiscated yesterday, for infractions too numerous to mention, which doomed us, we knew, to a morning of him writhing all over us and nagging us to get out of bed.
The idea of everyone getting up and dressed and out the door for a walk to the cafe in the brisk sunshine dissolved into me dragging the kid's pyjamas off his body and manhandling him into his clothes, while he wailed at full volume. At least the other child had the decency to put a sock in it for five minutes.
And so on. The babe squawked relentlessly, all day. The kid was contrary as a motherfucker. The Boy was cranky and I teetered on the edge of SHOUTING at my children and bursting into tears. A came over in the afternoon with honey cake and saved us from ourselves for a couple of hours, but it's been a shit fight ever since. The one thing that saved us all from killing each other was cranking up Beethoven's 9th almost as high as it could go and tearing around the living room at full pelt just before dinner. God bless that stray Peanuts comic book that the kid found on a bookshelf.
One is in bed and I'm feeding the other one. I'm ten minutes away from a seriously stiff drink and a block of chocolate. Today can get fucked. I'm going to knit a fucking strawberry.