'Old Mutha Hubbard'

...I was affecting a similar pose upstairs yesterday afternoon

Today we're celebrating Father's Day a week late.  That's because last weekend the husband and another father from Egg's class took a dozen boys on a birthday party camping extravaganza and when they arrived home on Sunday they were so wiped out that they spent the rest of the day drooling face down into the sofa.

And so here I sit, waiting for my muffins to rise, and preparing for my second caffeine injection of the day (and it's not even 8am...on a weekend) before the boys and I pile onto the bed and gift the husband with a motley assortment of 'gifts' specially chosen to illicit either a wary smile, raised eyebrow or a smile of delight depending on his mood.

You see we've both been in 'less than ideal' moods lately.  And that's an understatement.  They say that moving home is one of the most stressful things you can do after death and divorce.  But what they don't tell you is that moving home can often lead to death and/or divorce.

Now that the 'baby' is no longer a baby but rather a rambunctious, curious toddler, sometimes it feels like we're over run with boys and toys and screams and fights and mess and chaos, to the point that we look wearily across the table at each other mid-spaghetti food fight and shake our heads in defeat, the husband mumbling, "These are the hard years...."

And so the husband and I have a bit of a conundrum on our hands. Glastonbury Festival is next weekend and though very expensive tickets have been procured we have not yet finalised what our final line-up is going to be in terms of attendance.  Our options are thus:

1.  We go as a family

(minus the baby - as Auntie Mo and newly minted Uncle Chancey, about to become parents for the first time in August, have kindly agreed to Squit-sit the darling little bugger for us and save him from being ravaged by raved-up trustafarians in some muddy field in Somerset).  This option is unappealing for a number of reasons - the main one being that we did it last year, and much as we are glad we did, we have little to no desire to spend the weekend inside the family-centric enclosure known as the 'Green Fields', watching better parents than we, build puppets and practice circus stunts alongside their wee ones, betraying not an ounce of resentment over the fact that they can hear strains of their favourite band four fields away, with not a hope of seeing them in the flesh.

2.  We go as a couple

(this remains the most coveted and yearned for option.  For obvious reasons.  See above comment referring to death and/or divorce.  Nuff said.)

3.  The husband goes solo

(during these number-crunching house hunting days, it would be near insanity to waste a hallowed Glasto ticket - not just for the wasted poundage, but for the sheer stupidity of actually having miraculously procured a ticket and having it sit wasted on a desk whilst you watch sporadic coverage on BBC 3 and wipe mouths and bums in your husband's absence, all the while pity and resentment building.  Not good.)

So...what to do??

For now, put the whole dilemma to one side, celebrate 'Dada Day' a week late, and try to not think about what the heck we're going to do about Glastonbury, about buying a house, about trying to sell ours, about when on earth Squitty is going to allow us to attempt to potty-train him, and try harder to enforce the strict 'no cricket matches' on our back terrace so as not to further devalue this already worn 'Old Mutha Hubbard' cupboard with more broken lanterns and mirrors (sigh)...