"D is for Dumpie who loves Dumping"

So we're clearly into a new stage now...the DUMPING stage. Yes, much to my dismay (and to the delight of our local grocery store) Dumpie has discovered the joys of dumping all manner of tantalizing liquids on the floor. His favourite thing is to get a newly opened carton of juice and holding it aloft, gleefully tip his chubby wrist and allow the orange, yellow or purple liquid to come cascading down in a fountain of juicy goodness.

Twice in the past week I have walked into a kitchen soaked about an inch high with juice and found Egg laughing hysterically whilst Dumpie is slip-sliding about delighting in the homemade wading pool he's constructed. When they catch my horrified face they look rather shocked i think, to see that I don't seem to share their joy and sense of fun, and finally their giggles grind to a halt as I chase them witch-like out of the kitchen with my mop and various expletives...urghh!

It is for this same reason that Jay has had to dismantle one of our bidets. It now sits useless and forlorn with the handle lever removed as Dumpie found it too much of a temptation to flood the big family bathroom by twisting the nozzle into an upright position (so as best to splash across onto the far wall) and cranking the lever, all the while jumping up and down in excitement as he soaked his brother who was trying in vain to stop him. (Potential career as fireman?)

At any rate, far more worrying is the mobility these terrible twosome now have. Jay and I are now used to our near-dawn wake-up call which is not unlike the scariest scene from the 'Exorcist' movie. We'll be sleeping soundly, cuddled up in our supersoft, superwarm duvet, and suddenly hear a loud thump, followed by a flurry of commotion on the stairs. With a frenzied entry (which sounds more like a small army than merely two little boys) we'll be woken bolt upright by cackles, shrieks of delight and often the odd bit of fruit shoved in our faces (this morning it was segments of an orange, though bananas are a firm favourite).

Egg goes right for our big storage box of toys in the corner and begins whipping them over his shoulder while Dumps goes for the overhead brighter-than-bright halogen lights which are positioned so perfectly as to cause disorientation and distress - much like being in an interrogation room. Egg positions himself by the doorway and yells at Dumps while flicking the lights off...then Dumps yells back at Egg and uses the switch by our bed to switch them back on...then off...then on...and so it goes, until both Jay and I are numb with agony and rue the day we ever thought procreation a good idea.

Of course I haven't explained the best part - about how Egg wakes Dumpie up at the crack of dawn each morning, asks him if he wants cartoons or treats and then lifts him out of his crib, half-asleep, to inflict misery on his sleep-deprived and stressed parents. I came across this newfound ability of Egg's a few weeks ago. Jay was downstairs on the phone, Egg was playing quietly in his bedroom and Dumpie was jumping up and down in his cot demanding to be let out. I raced upstairs to avail myself of a moment of peace in the toilet, promising Dumps I'd be down in a sec to get him out. I needn't have bothered. Moments later I hear two sets of pitter-pattering feet as the bathroom door (sans lock) is thrown wide open and two grinning munchkins descend upon me where I am sat rather shocked upon the white porcelein.

I yell 'Jay!' assuming he's there with them and has let the boys in, but there is no answer, and when I quiz Egg about it, he admits that HE got Dumpie out of his cot. I simply do not believe it, so I make him take me downstairs and show me himself. Sure enough, once I plop Dumpie back in his cot, he stands on his tippie-toes and hoists his armpits over the bars while Eggie reaches up and grabs onto him, slowly backing away as Dumpie wiggles and squirms his chubby behind in order to better facilitate his release. Seconds later Egg is staggering under the 'solid' weight of Dumps, holding him completely in his little arms before it is too much and Dumps is ungracefully plopped onto the floor, from whence he shakes himself off and toddles out the door. Bish bash bosh. Easy peasy. No problemo.

So you see, my days of rule are over. Now that there is no hope of containment for these two, they have full run of the house and are well aware that the balance of power has shifted. There is nothing these two will not get into or destroy - if that is what they so desire. Last week it was my £60 MAC power chord which was cut with scissors in two places, then a few days later Jay held up the short little piece of the cord from HIS laptop in disbelief while Egg chuckled quietly from the doorway. URGHHH!!!

The two of them climb onto the counter tops and from there have access to nearly every cupboard in the kitchen, and have demolished peanut butter jars, bags of crisps, cookies, whole bars of 70% cocoa chocolate (that was a fun day) and even bags of marshmallows and the chocolate topping I sprinkle on my infamous homemade cappuccinos (sigh).

Add to this the fact that night times have become a ritual of pointless and frustrating routine, as Dumpie has now learned how to hurl himself out of his cot on his own. He simply points his toes like a chubby little gymnast and once resting them on the top of the bar, uses his brute strength to lift the rest of his body up and over and then hurls himself to the ground, refusing to cry even if he does mildly injure himself. He just brushes himself off and runs off laughing to find me and gloat.

It is at this point that I have usually retreated downstairs for my first real rest of the day, or to clean the kitchen after the nightmare that is dinner time, and I'll look up and framed in the doorway is Dumpie looking rather pleased with himself and Egg giggling and jumping up and down behind him shouting, 'Dumpie got out himself! Dumpie got out himself Mama...look!"

It often takes six or seven tries and much sobbing and making of scary faces (that's me by the way) before they boys eventually give up and realise that their psycho mother means business and perhaps their 'Houdini' antics are best saved for another day when Mama looks a little less on edge.

The biggest problem I face is my totally schizoid attitude towards the monsters. Sometimes I want to throttle them (like last week when they tore a lens out and broke the fragile frames of my one-of-a-kind cooler-than-cool, collectors edition sunglasses), and other times I just look at their hilarious expressions and their outretched baby arms and am face planted with a gooey kiss and...well, I just melt and want to keep them tiny and adorable forever.

So you see? They already win. They know they are cute and they know I'm a sucker. I should just get them their own set of car keys (and a car of course), give them their own level of the house, and let them get on with the job of growing up, destroying ALL our material possessions and fulfilling their destinies.