I was going to blog about something else but yesterday afternoon was utterly horrific and I have to get it off my chest.
OK, not utterly horrific in a multiple tragedy kind of way, but in the way that can only happen with two very small children, at that time in the afternoon and when you’ve got PMT and daddy isn’t due back from work for hours.
It all started innocently enough with a trip to see my Grandma. Ziggler was very excited so we made up a little ditty which goes ‘Nana’s house – la la la laaa’ and we were singing on the way to the car. We sang the Nana’s House song as we set off. It was getting dark and cold outside and Ziggler had her big orange duffle coat on. Pickle had just woken from a nap and was cooing along happily from her car seat. I turned on the radio. Then I noticed that the back seat had gone quiet. Ziggler had fallen asleep.
So we arrived at Nana’s and Pickle and I went up to her first floor flat. My Grandma is in pretty good nick but she is 87 and Pickle favours the scorched earth approach when it comes to other people’s houses. So I ran ran as fast as I could to delicately wrestle the sleeping Ziggler out of her car seat and ladle her into the pushchair. The lift in my Gran’s serviced apartment block is meant for old people, and old people don’t generally like sudden jarring movements, so the lift in my Gran’s serviced apartment block is intentionally v…e…r..y s…l…o……w. When it finally arrived I was jiggling in panic, envisaging a scene of devastation in the flat above.
However actually it was all fine and we had a cup of tea and a Breakaway and a nice chat.
Ziggler slept through the entire visit. And then, as we left Gran’s house and reached the car in the dark and I fastened Pickle into her seat, I heard the siren-like wail of a toddler who has Woken Up Pissed Off. ‘It’s too daaaaaarrrrkkkk,’ she cried. ‘I want to seeee naaaaaaaanaaaaa.’
‘Oh dear,’ replied I, in my best even-toned I-am-the-adult voice. ‘you were asleep at nana’s. But look! She sent a chocolate biscuit for you.’
‘Leeaaaveee me alooooone,’ screeched Ziggler with a demonic glare, snatching the proffered Breakaway, ripping open the wrapper and stuffing it in her mouth, somehow wailing throughout.
On the journey home, Ziggler keened and beat her chest about missing nana. She didn’t want to go home for tea, she wanted to see nana. She didn’t want to phone nana when we got home. She wanted to go to nana’s home. Then Pickle got infected with the misery and started to cry too, with her most affecting sob which sounds like she’s just received tragic news. I tried to remain cheerful as I drove home by saying ‘oh dear! Everyone’s a bit tired and upset!’ and the like. It did not work. They sobbed while I cooked their tea because they wanted their tea. They wailed while they were eating their tea because I’d turned the telly off. Ziggler yelled because my lovingly-prepared-from-scratch meal was ‘yucky’. She cried because she spilt yoghurt on her skirt. Pickle just cried. I dropped Ziggler’s plate, ketchup side down, on the beige carpet. Pickle did an explosive poo. The phone rang – I dashed, poo-smeared and slipping on a stray bit of baked potato to answer it to be greeted by one of those recorded messages where the first sentence is ‘Hi. Please do not hang up’. I hung up. Ziggler demanded a biscuit a biscuit a biscuit a biscuit. I shouted. I’m not proud. But we didn’t have any biscuits, even if I’d been minded to give her one. And they’d been complaining in various ways for two hours.
Thank Christ for bed time is all I can say.
This morning I have to admit to an internal ‘oh, God,’ groan when I woke up. But when I came downstairs, Ziggler was blowing raspberries on Pickle’s tummy. Pickle was giggling. ‘what a lubbly girl!’ exclaimed Ziggler. ‘I luff you, Pickle.’ And everything seemed all right again.