"Bath or Blog?...Blath or Bog?"

I find myself in the unique predicament of having to choose between bathing myself or expressing myself creatively. I can honestly say that I am unable to make a decision in this case, one way or the other. So I shall attempt what most modern women have to do in the modern age - make a compromise....that is, I shall write a wee little blog AND have a shortened (but no doubt needed) bathing session. See, who says a woman can't have it all?

Today I find myself mildly pleased and also somewhat lethargic. The pleased bit is due to the fact that a lot of my clothes are starting to hang off me, and that means that my 'baby weight' (ie. excess pounds put on by midnight KitKat indulgances and dipping into the Ben & Jerry's more times than was strictly necessary) is finally bidding adieu and my skinny jeans are starting to look the way the designers intended....Skinny...(and not like sausages stuffed into too-small casings).

On a slightly, but only slightly less superficial scale, is the hum-drum British weather, which as we speak resembles a mid-Novembers day: cold, rainy and utterly devoid of any warmth or well-being. On the news today was a segment featuring Brits who have had it with this climate and increasing violence in the capital and are emmigrating to countries like Australia, Spain and America. Jay and I on the other hand are in the process of searching for an over-priced, over-valued new abhode which will likely keep us wage slaves here for the rest of the days of our lives...with interest rates high enough to cause nosebleeds (sigh)...

But you don't want to hear about all that. Boring boring boring. What you really want to hear about are the two monsters I bet, and what latest catastrophes they have visited upon this household. Well, aside from the usual destruction and general mayhem that is our unscheduled everyday shenanigans, I am pleased to report that both boys are thriving. (The fact that with every day I am becoming less and less of a coherant, functioning person is beside the point I suppose.)

Dumpie has now become terribly particular about food and point blank refuses his morning porridge and any baby food. He has been revolting against my lackadaisical daily efforts by going on hunger strike the past two days and will only eat what either I am eating or Egg is. This means that Vegetable and Turkey Casserole was spat into my face at lunch in lieu of some of Egg's peanut butter sandwich. At dinner, the Beef Hotpot was tossed willy-nilly onto Jay's freshly washed jeans in favour of pizza and rocket salad with shaved parmesan.

Strawberries are in but melon is out. Grapes rock but blueberry muffins rule. Yesterday morning (see pic) I made Egg a lovely fruitplate upon request (hey - i'm a lazy bad mother and all that - but I can still see the value in asthetic meal presentations) for I'm nothing if not shambolic 4* service. Dumps immediately set about wailing and shrieking like a dying bat and for the life of me I could not quiet him. It was Egg who said,

"Mama, Dumps wants a fruit plate too"

pointing out the blatantly obvious solution, and minutes later the boys were happily ensconsed in their fruit-binging and pleased as pumpkins.

Well I could go on but I shan't. Next door in our tiny bathroom (where Dumps first entered our world a mere 9 months ago) is a slightly small bathtub going lukewarm and becoming less appealing by the minute. If I don't go now I fear I won't have another chance until Jay returns from his Paris trip Friday night. (Yep, the hubby gets to go to the City of Love sans wife and two monsters and drink wine to his hearts content and pretend he's a man about town for one night.)

I on the otherhand have to negotiate 36 hours of non-stop childcare with one bored toddler and one teething baby and two conspicuously absent aunties (I suspect they're hiding out because our 11th anniversary is coming up next week and they want to dodge the fateful request of, "Do you think you could watch the boys while we go out for hours and get twatted?" question...).

Don't blame them. If i were them I'd make up my excuses now.