Currently, almost every neutron, quark, and what-have-you that makes up very nearly all the atoms which in turn make up my whole person is fully engaged in utterly adoring my two incredibly beautiful, funny and clever daughters.
Those very few that are not, whilst their number is almost too tiny to count, could in all honesty do with a bit of a break.
Trulove says that when I get behind the wheel of a car I turn from an ordinary, even gentle human being into Jeremy Clarkson. This is of course nonsense. There is noone less like that smug Jurassic misogynist. Trulove doesn’t even drive so what would he know.
However there are a lot of annoying drivers on the motorway who do things like drive too close, be incredibly arrogant, and who simply canNOT bear to be overtaken by a woman driving a middle-of-the-range saloon with two kids in the back (yes men driving BMWs I am talking to you). Additionally that ridiculous obsession people have about not hogging the middle lane means that there is much sanctimonious pulling into the inside lane and then screeching back out again when they realise they have nearly got stuck behind a lorry. So what with having to pacify the refreshment and entertainment needs of two preschoolers while simultaneously driving safely and striving valiantly not to screech things like ‘Why don’t you just drive straight up my arse you great knobwanker?’ in front of them (oh all right, Trulove, maybe you do have a point. I am shamed), I have found all the driving I’ve done recently a bit of a strain.
Then there’s the school holidays. I’m not going to repeat my rant about those, but this time Pickle has reached two-and-a-half. I thought Ziggler was a tantromic toddler but Pickle is unpredictable and raging volcano to Ziggler’s Mento in a diet coke. Will she put her cardi on? Noooooooooooarghhgghghgblbl. Would she like a shoulder-ride? Naaaaaaaaaoooooooooarghghghblblargh. Could she get into her car-seat? Nwwwaaaaaarrrghhhgblblgraaaarghblbl. I suggested she may have had enough chocolate. There are not enough letters on the keyboard nor space on this blog to approximate the magnitude of that eruption; in fact I’m not even sure it’s finished yet after beginning last Tuesday. Of course she chooses to have these tantrums in nice private places like the platform of the steam railway on a drizzly Easter holiday morning, and the middle of the floor in the ‘Restbite’ free-flow restaurant at Watford Gap services. All the while, those mothers higher up the SHOM look on with their clean and angelic 8 and 12 year-olds, having forgotten the tantrum stage, and judge.
It was lovely to see my mum. The girls are still talking about Grandma, Grandma’s house, the sheepandthehorse in the field opposite Grandma’s house, and when we will next see Grandma. Her company is solace and her house is calm and it is cute. However, it is SMALL. Ziggler made the half metre journey from her lilo to my bed every night.
I have not really been more than 5 metres away from either of my delicious children since about two weeks ago, apart from the two times Pickle ran off at the seaside (once towards the road, and once for the turbulent sea). I have provided ceaseless entertainment, snackage, ungrudging cuddles, referee services for disagreements, tickling, transportation, answers to questions innumerable and research for those I couldn’t answer myself, and all with a smiling face and nag-free countenance (that bit’s not true).
So what I’m really saying is that although I adore my cherubic darlings and although we have had a lovely couple of weeks, those very few elementary particles I was talking about could really use a bit of a lie-down. Preferably on a warm beach, with a book and a margarita.
Not going to happen, obviously, but thank the dark matter that school’s back next week.