"And One Rolled Over..."

For the past week or so we have been having nightly visits to our giant 'used-to-be-oh-so-comfy' King size bed.  The first visitation usually occurs around 2am or some other ungodly hour.  There will be the tiny pitter-patter of sock-clad feet creaking up the stairs, then a muffled whine of, "Mama", followed by the swift removal of my warm duvet and the clambering up of a sweaty little toddler into the marriage bed.

A few grumbles, some major shifting, then the three of us drift off for what seem like minutes (but could well be a few hours) and the next visitor arrives.  Again, it's pitch black, and if you happen to be tossing and turning (very likely with three in a bed) and by chance open your eyes and stare at the door at the very moment that it creaks open and you make out two round glowing eyes like little gems - it can actually be a bit freaky.

This time the opposite side of the bed will be approached, and once again we'll all position ourselves like human kebabs upon the damp sheets until somehow we've managed to haphazardly arrange ourselves into something resembling a sleeping arrangement.  

Of course all mayhem ensues upon waking, as ears are tugged, hair is pulled, eyes are forced open by chubby fingers and it's a matter of each man for himself as we try and protect our most accessible and vulnerable body parts from the onslaught of bored, hungry, mischievous monsters.

Amusingly, Dumpie likes to sleep cuddled right up next to me, both arms encircled around my head, pulling me close until he is breathing onto my face and snuggled deep into the recess of my neck.  I'm sure it would make for an utterly adorable scenario if only my head weren't positioned at such an unreasonable 45 degree angle in an effort not to cut off the blood circulation to his little arm.

Eggie on the other hand prefers to snuggle up to the husband. From there he has a better vantage point from which to administer all night kicks and random groin attacks which leave the husband fearing that his days of functioning as random sperm donator are seriously numbered.

Yesterday while fighting over MY laptop, things got so heated that Dumpie reached over and bit Egg squarely in the shoulder.  He nearly drew blood and left a terrific bruise, but seemed happy enough to apologise moments later when we looked at him aghast.

"Sorry Eggie," he chirped, then reached over for a hug and a 'lip kiss'.  Egg, sobbing, allowed himself to be coddled, while Dumpie started mumbling, "Me naughty...me naughty...yep, me naughty," to himself while clambering about the furniture.

Egg shortly thereafter consoled himself by gorging on three hidden chocolate brownies which were supposed to be for dessert.  Later at dinner, I found myself wanting to weep into my porridge as both boys upended glasses of milk on the newly scrubbed kitchen floor and sent their identical bowls of creamy tomato chicken and pasta hurtling off the table edge like a hastily arranged game of 'skittles' in an attempt to coerce me into giving them some 'vamilla ice-cweam'.

The rest of my tragic night was spent on the internet trying to source a children's entertainer for Eggie's approaching 5th birthday. Frankly, I'm not sure I'm up to the task.  The thought of 14 five year olds potentially tearing through our home and garden is giving me the fear.

Also, I'm out of heavy duty painkillers.  My mouth still throbs, the husband is off to spend the day watching cricket with his pals, and I contemplate the next several hours with a heavy heart indeed.  Auntie Kenz better show up as promised this afternoon or I'm going to lock myself in my bedroom with a dvd and deposit the boys in a bathtub full of sweeties and their plastic foam swords and tell them to go mental.