Battle of the Sexes

Now I’m a very liberal woman...VERY liberal. When my husband begs off to go sit in a giant field for five days with thousands of others off their faces and listen to live music at a summer festival year after year - i sigh and say ’go ahead’ (he doesn’t pick up on the sigh...not at all fluent in ’Woman-ese’). When he rings from work and says he’s just stopping for a ’pint’ and will head home soon, I say ’go ahead’ and barely register any sort of emotion when he stumbles home pissed drunk at 1 a.m. But when my husband spends an afternoon bitching about how unfair it is that HE has to go to work whilst I stay home and raise our two rambunctious toddlers, and suggests that I have it easy while he drew the short end of the stick (sorry - blame the gene pool or your parents for that one - i had nothing to do with you being born a BOY and not a prospective breeder)...well then I hear the faint buzzing of a wee bee in me bonnet.

I think womankind everywhere will sympathize with me when I say that most men are deluded about how hardcore it can be to be not only a woman, but a mother. Yes, yes, there is all that cuddly kissy newborn stuff, odd afternoons relaxing with a cappucino on a park bench (well for some mothers - not me - I end up screaming and running around the playground like a demented chicken in big black shades trying to keep Egg from bullying anyone and Dumpie fall to his death), and the joy of watching every minute detail of their development (though sometimes it’s like being trapped inside a ’Joy of Parenting’ novel!).

However there is also the DARKSIDE. By this i mean the constant barrage of questions, the endless stream of filthy nappies, the horrendously soul-destroying boring numbness of ’Groundhog Day’-like (ie. the movie) repitition day after bloody day, the fact that you spend 80% of your waking hours mopping up a kitchen which let’s face it will NEVER again look as lovely and new as when you first moved in, and then there are the details like dentist appointments, doctors visits, birthday parties, thank you cards, library trips, school applications and a million other mindless tasks to be responsible for.

You are not paid a penny for your work - and in fact some rather brutish husbands even go so far as to imply that THEY are the breadwinners and you a mere ungrateful, unpaid servant who is lucky to have a roof over her head. Others roll their eyes or wolf down lovingly prepared meals without even a single word of thanks before slinking off to go collapse in front of the telly or a computer while said wife spends another half hour cleaning up (may i add that it is NOT a good idea to play Carly Simon’s ’Coming Around Again’ in this situation...I repeat NOT a good idea).

I say all this to point out that it is not simply a matter of ’Men have it hard and Women have it easy’. (Note that I didn’t even BOTHER to go into the whole nine month pregnancy stretch-your-body-out-of-shape-forever-and-age-ten-years debate. To do so would be like taking candy from a baby, and where’s the fun in that?)

No, I am speaking here to all men who take their women for granted: women who still make an effort to scrub up well when needed - or just for the hell of it...women who still attempt to whip up delights in the kitchen for their man, when it would be a hundred times easier to pop a ready-meal in the microwave for 5 minutes...women who remember everyone’s birthdays, send thank you cards, buy presents, arrange holidays, read story books till their brains are numb, wipe filthy bottoms, do bucketloads of laundry everyday, make thousands of 'kiddie meals' which will only end up in the bin, lug countless bags of groceries home day after day, scrub and clean taps, toilets and floors from morning till night...and still find time to smile and be pleasant when their husbands walk through the door (instead of scream like a maniac and run for the bubblebath with a bottle of scotch - never to emerge again).

Anyway, all this to say that having been woken at 6:14 a.m. this morning by Egg and a screaming Dumps, I was none too surprised to see that my husbands side of the bed hadn’t been slept in. No doubt that little ’get-together’ he mumbled about and left for yesterday afternoon proved too much fun to leave. No doubt he’s crashed on someone’s sofa, wasted, making like an 18 year old...who knows.

The fact is, the pen is mightier than the sword, and instead of sticking it to him when he eventually returns, I would rather take this opportunity to point out that despite firmly held beliefs about gender roles, say what you want, but NO WAY would it be acceptable for ME or any other MOTHER to pull the same stunt. We would be declared ’un-fit mothers’ and ’alcoholics’ and ’whores’ and no end of slanderous slurs would be spat in our direction. Simply put, we would never hear the end of it!

So Darling, next time you want to discuss how ’unfair’ it is having to go out and earn a crust of bread while we mothers ’sit around reading magazines and eating bon-bons’, being ’lame little housewives’, remember that every cloud has a silver lining. You were born with a penis and thus have license to continue indulging in adolescent pursuits until well into your 60’s lucky fella!

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it Darling...I have some breakfast to whip up.

The Beauty of Everyday

I realize I’ve gone quiet the past several weeks. It’s not for lack of anything to say, but rather lack of time to depict the ever increasing chaos which is now my life. Little Dumpie (aka Noah) has now discovered how much more interesting the world is now that he can climb up everywhere and manoever chairs around. It has opend up a whole new world of possibilities: tableware, sweeties, telephones, computers, knives...you know - all that fun stuff.

His latest obsession is with the stove and he now knows how to turn it on and of course now it’s only a matter of time until he burns down the house. But it’s not all gloom and doom round here. This morning we took delivery of a lovely case of wine. Wonder how long it will take us to get through that? (I give it a week.)

Meanwhile Egg has gotten his first girlfriend. He’s only 3 and already he’s scoring more than his father did in highschool. The main girl in question is the lovely ’Lilly-May’ who has cute little braids exploding from her pretty little face and always jumps up excitedly when Egg arrives at nursery exclaiming, "Jake’s here!". At which point the little girls around her whisper ’Jake, Jake...’ and peer over in interest. Egg of course plays it cool (must have inherited his mom’s genes) and barely gives a cursory nod before slumping down in front of some play doh and ’baking pies’ (too much time at home with Mama in formative years peut-etre?) After school Egg shoved two paintings at me. I was impressed and amazed at the first one as it was beautiful and very pretty. It didn’t at all resemble his usual ’mental patient’ scrawlings. Then i noticed that at the top the teacher had written "TO JAKE FROM LILLY-MAY". Figures.

Yesterday I stood outside the nursery door for a few minutes after dropping him off to spy on him. Much to my surprise I watched as he waited till the little girl next to him was distracted with something else, then quick as you like replaced his brown rolling pin with her bright pink one. Did i mention that his favourite colour is pink? How about the fact that the other day i had to drag him kicking and screaming away from the local toy shop where they had a bright pink girls bike with training wheels outside on display and he demanded I buy it for him and let him ride it! Don’t know really how to proceed on this one. I’m all for gender equality but bright pink???

Jay’s recently taken up cycling. Bought himself a spanking new cool-as-you-like customised blue bike from Brighton. After spazzing a fortune on all the requisite gear, he set the alarm for 7am on Saturday, bought himself a return ticket to the coast and many, many hours later returned, soaked, new bike in hand, and rather proud of himself for having ridden Brighton - London....partially in the rain. Now i must confess, I applaud any sort of commitment toward physical fitness, but I do not fancy being left alone as a single parent, and for that reason i’m not terribly happy about Jay now commuting to work through the insane streets of London with only a poxy black cardboard helmet and a neon green bike outfit to protect his person (and his modesty).

Call me a spoilsport, but what’s wrong with gold old London transport? Buses which crawl at a snails pace allow for major daydreaming and people watching. Tubes which get stuck underground are great opportunities to meet strangers and discuss philosophical ideas about death and the demise of the modern mankind. Walking with an ipod jammed into your head whilst elbowing pedestrians out of the way is about the closest you can get to starring in your own music video and does wonders for developing agility - especially when storming down tourist-ridden streets.

Well I must go now. Egg just plugged in my hair straighteners and almost electrocuted Dumpie who is now clutching his right hand and sobbing.

I wonder how on earth i am to ensure that they make it to their 18th birthdays unharmed (well relatively) and unmaimed and not brain damaged or traumatized. I wonder how I am supposed to make it to their 18th birthdays unharmed, unmaimed, not brain damaged or traumatized....

The Flood (Part 2)

Two days ago Egg flooded yet another room in our new home. Once more it was a bathroom, but this time the master bedroom one. I am pleased to report that the bidet did not play a part in the deluge like last time, however the bloody toilet brush and a whole roll of toilet paper were sufficient enough to clog the toilet, cause a serious overflow, and direct streams of water into our actual bedroom.

I wanted to murder him. Again. Instead I put him on the stairs, got all the towels in the house in an attempt to stem the flow of water, and had to spend 20 minutes elbow deep in the toilet, up the U-bend - in an attempt to fix the blockage. I have to hand it to the little guy - he did a most thorough job in F__ing it i up.

I have to say that Egg showed very little remorse this time around, and instead queried whether I still loved him. Of course I gave the correct answer, though fuming, and explained that I loved him but that i was VERY ANGRY with him. Later when Jay came home and asked him about the flooding, Egg very solemnly declared, "Let’s not talk about that Dada. Let’s talk about nice things." So that was that.

Alarmingly, Dumpie just yesterday learned how easy it is to slide a kitchen chair across the linoleum, bang it right up to the cupboard and clamber onto it like a circus monkey. Once up, he has complete and direct access to ... well, to everything. Initially favouring the big sweep - literally sending everything crashing down onto the floor for his own personal amusement - today he seems rather fond of exploratory taste testing. An hour ago I walked into the kitchen to find both boys side by side on a chair, on tiptoe, knuckle deep in peanut butter. Oh joy.

Now as I type Dumpie is systematically relieving the utility cupboard of every toxic and non-toxic substance used (pointlessly I must add) to clean this house. He has a constant runny nose, an impish grin and a smile which would melt anyone and anything. He’s going to be alright. I am not.

When I complain to Jay, his response is, "Well go find yourself a cleaning lady. It’s your own fault." Although it would certainly help the situation, let’s face it, with this crew it’s akin to putting up ’Healthy Eating’ posters depicting fruit and seeds next to a ’Cadbury’s’ vending machine... well intentioned yet utterly useless.

"Rain Rain Go Away"

It’s 6:40pm on a rainy, cold March evening here in London, and I’m listening to Annie Lennox ’Why’, allowing it to drown out the screams behind me. Egg is trying to play with his play-doh and keep Dumpie from eating it (something he’s not too successful at given that I spot a large dayglo chunk of green in his mouth right now). I’ve just fished out Dumpie’s sippy cup and various baking implements from our large dirty bin for the fifteenth time....this hour...and I’m so exhausted that I’m contemplating a quick nap on the floor by the oven.

Now lest you think i embellish these little anecdotes, let me just say that as we speak Dumpie is dragging the toilet brush all around my kitchen and has just deposited ANOTHER new roll of toilet paper in the toilet bowl...the whole thing (sigh). So much for having a bathroom on every level - i thought it was supposed to be a good thing, not a curse. How was I supposed to know how enticing a toilet brush is to a 16 month old??

Today I picked up Egg from nursery at 3:30 pm as usual - only it was raining and I was early (for once)...in fact I was the first one there. Shortly after I arrived, my favourite fellow ’mom’ arrived to cart home her FOUR toddler boys. I refer to her as ’Nice Mom’. How does she do it? I’m sure she’s blissed out on happy pills because everytime I see her she has a perpetual grin lighting up her face and looks utterly chilled. We haven’t yet broken the ice and spoken to each other, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. We do the smile, nod and ’hi’ though, so that’s something. Mom politics...wonder if i’ll ever get the hang of it - or the inclination to get the hang of it.

Shortly after ’nice mom’ my nemesis arrived "short, fat, mean French mom’. She is a nasty piece of work. For the past two months she’s looked as though she should be in hospital stirrups not on the school run, as she is a short, toady looking thing who is just as wide around as she is tall. Sporting rimless frames and always with a severe look on her face, she has taken a great dislike to Egg and I. You could blame this on the hormones or the fact that one day, many weeks ago, Egg accidentally took her daughters spot at the ’painting’ table - illiciting a tantrum of which I haven’t seen the like before, from her very spoiled, very annoying blond little girl. Of course with my luck, she and Egg will grow to become best friends and ’Mean French Mom’ and I will have to glare our way through birthday parties and school functions....urghhhh

Anyway, Dumpie is yanking on my jeans demanding another cup of juice and Egg is insisting I try his play-doh pie. I wish I drank scotch or had a valium prescription. Or both.

'Jetlaggia'

Arrived home this morning from ten days in St. Lucia avec Jay's famille. We had the good luck to be jammed in a train carriage from Gatwick full of grumpy monday morning commuters, and Dumpie's loud shrieks and Egg's constant jabbering likely did much in the way of making our fellow passengers wish they were dead (or we were).

Yesterday at the airport I sufferred the embarrassment of Egg staring doggedly at an overweight lady opposite him, cramming her mouth full of crisps whilst devouring a romantic novel. Soon he started whining for crisps too and moments later the lady beside him got up and returned with a can of sour cream and onion Pringles - a large handful of which she felt obliged to hand over immediately to the salivating Dumpie (who was gesturing at them with his arm and making grunting noises) and Egg (who was plaintively staring the can down). Humiliating....especially when Egg continued to loudly request more.

I'm simply too shattered to go into detail about our week away in the Caribbean, but suffice it to say that we've all returned a) browner (we were pretty much the only 'Johnston' contingent to not suffer sunburn at some point b) fatter (thanks to the 24 hour all-inclusive buffet and open bar - hiccup burp hiccup) and c) disgruntled (when you've spent your days stuffing your face, lying prone in the hot sun and moving only to shunt yourself around the 'lazy river' - a manmade inner tube ride which slowly lulls you around the grounds much reminiscent of a hippo - it's a wee bit tricky to adjust to real life again and a faster pace of life.

At any rate, the boys upstairs have finally stopped screaming themselves to sleep (they are jetlagged within an inch of their lives and are likely going to wake bolt upright sometime around 3 am) and Jay has just finished drying out the flood which happened in our kitchen while we were away. I would be a fool not to roll myself into bed now and try to get some rest before the screeching chicken rears its ugly/cute head and tomorrow is upon us.

I have an early morning visit from a spun out cable guy to look forward to. If his visit is anything like his last he shall be climbing out our various windows like a monkey, spilling cups of tea and dirtying up the house with muddy trainers. And for this I'll get the pleasure of handing him a load of cash and running around keeping two boys from leaping out the open windows. Fun fun fun.

Breasts, Glorious Breasts

I realized I had sunk to new lows this morning in bed when I sleepily gave Egg permission to take Dumpie downstairs and 'play' while I slept. Jay was showering at the time and yelled out,

"Do you really think it's a good idea to send the boys downstairs unsupervised?!"

Umm. Yes i did think it was a good idea. I would have allowed them to boil an egg on the stove unsupervised if it meant I could snatch a few more minutes of desperately needed sleep.

Before you condemn me, let me explain my current predicament. Dumpie is addicted...addicted to me...well actually he's addicted to my breasts. There, i've said it. Instead of slowly weaning himself OFF the breast, he has done a u-turn and now I find my mammaries in demand 24/7. It's relentless and it's taking over my life.

A typical 24 hours goes like this: bedtime (feed)...middle of the night (feed)...early dawn (feed)....breakfast (feed)...late morning (feed)...lunchtime (feed)....mid-afternoon (feed)...early evening (feed)...dinner (feed)...and then the cycle begins all over again.

Not only are my poor breasts suffering from over-exposure, but all my lovely bra's have been bent out of shape given that i long ago (optimistically) threw out all my nursing bra's and now have to wrangle with straps and bows and wire and elastic constantly - just to feed the hungry little beast.

I had a eureka moment this morning when I surveyed my darling little munchkin who at the time was sat quietly behind me in the bathroom, surrounded by a pile of tampon wrappers, trying to bite the actual tampons in half after having liberated over a dozen of them in the misguided notion that they were sweets. He grinned at me, flashing his 100 watt smile, then glanced down at my chest, stood up and waddled over to me hands outstretched headed for his..well, his bits.

It suddenly dawned that my breasts are HIS. Unlike Egg who formed an early alliance with one particular brown bear early on (and to this day still conducts most of his daily duties with 'Bacon' in tow), Dumpie has never particularly cared for or taken notice of the multitude of inanimate stuffed animals which litter his nursery. Why would he when he has such a superior substitution?

Embarrassingly, he's lately taken to stroking the other breast lovingly whilst nuzzling contentedly, and even if i try and cover his ever-expanding frame with a jumper or shawl, there is still the small problem of his fat chubby wrist protruding up towards my neck - making people wonder whether it's an over attached toddler or perhaps a horny little dwarf (or 'little person' as i believe they like to be called these days) wreaking havoc below.

So you see, I realize now that i'm dealing with more than just the problem of trying to wean an attached baby from his beloved breasts. By cutting Dumps off I shall in effect, be ripping his 'teddy bear' from his arms, tearing it in shreds, and shoving it piece by piece down the toilet as he looks on sobbing and inconsolable. I hardly suspect there is a blanket or bear anywhere in the world which is going to compensate for such a loss. I also suspect that high necklines and loose fitting blouses are going to be the order of the day for the next little while.

It hardly bodes well that I'm off on a beach holiday later this week. That should be interesting.

"VOMITUS DIARRHEA ERUPTUS GRAVITAS"

Vomit vomit everywhere
In carpets, kitchen
and my hair

But that's not all we've also got
Diarrhea
And loads of snot!

It's ruined our sheets and soiled our beds
This non-stop spewing
Makes me wish i were dead

When it comes from both ends you never know
Just when to expect
The next fetid show

Another one's due in moments i fear
As the sick 'Dumpie-lumpagous'
Is moaning quite near

Eggie lies prostrate and whining in pain
Is it possible this virus
Is going to go another round..again?!

Now i must be gone and deal with the pain
And in a few short moments
There will be another stain

No rest for the wicked and by that they mean moms
I've got two sickly boys
With two sickly tums...

(GIANT SIGH).....

Ode to Life In a Barn

Today was fun. Egg awoke and had some horrific diahrea incident which Jay (mumbling) alluded to before positively tearing out the front door with what I can now identify as a relieved expression masking his face. He was wise not to go into detail as I might have been tempted to O.D. on childs 'Calpol' medicine instead of getting out of bed and stomping sickly downstairs to see what chaos ensued in the kitchen containing the two monsters. At the very least I might have gotten a cheap high from the medicine which may in turn have prevented me from nearly losing it when the first (of several it turns out) incident of projectile vomiting kicked off minutes later.

As I sat rubbing Egg's back as he covered not one but two bathrooms in yellow vomit, I was thankful that we don't live in a home with carpeted bathrooms. Naively assuming that it was a one-off eruption, you can imagine my surprise and horror when shortly afterward a half naked Egg somberly whimpered as he stood before me saying,

"Sorry Mama. I made a diahrrea. It was an accident not on purpose. I'm sick Mama."

Sure enough the poor angel was. And so was I by the time I finished cleaning that one up. Who knew that there is actually such a thing as projectile diahrea? Live and learn. I shan't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that there will several more incidents over the next 16 hours...each one even more impressively catastrophic than the last.

I sit here now, baby surgically attached, Egg moaning upstairs in bed, and wondering how sexy i must smell to my husband who is due in any moment. It's almost 11pm and he's been at Bass class across town. This is one of those days that makes me yearn to be an alcoholic. If ever I deserved to swig down several glasses of the hard stuff - today would be it.

The Return Of Mr. Hanky Poo

Yesterday I was getting on with the boring tasks which seem to make up the bulk of my life these days when the phone rang. It was Jay.

"Aw Nis, you have to get down to Egg's school. They just rang and said that he's soiled himself."

"What?! Oh No!" I moaned, and quickly hung up the phone and scurried around for a change of clothes, wet wipes and whatever remotely relevant products I could find within reach. I raced out the door and minutes later was somberly directed towards the kiddies' toilets where my first born stood 'shittily' defiant and without remorse, inside the stall.

He neither appeared terribly bothered (either about my horror stricken face OR the small group of children who had gathered at the bathroom door and were staring in fascination at their newest classmate, trying desperately to break past one of the teachers - a kindly woman named 'Val' - clad in elbow length gloves and staring pityingly at me.

Looking me straight in the eyes she asked, "Is Jake toilet trained?"

I affirmed that yes he most certainly was, but she didn't look convinced. Apparently this had not been a simple case of a wipe job gone wrong, or even the typical 'load in the drawers' scenario. Nope. Jake had soiled first himself, then proceeded to 'soil' - manually - the two sofa's in the reading area, several unfortunately placed toys, and the entire inside of the toilet stall including the toilet itself.

Now you'll recall that we had a similiar incident involving our fecally-fixated Egg when he was but a mere toddler, and of course it was at home...behind closed doors.

This time however we had an audience, and crouched down on all fours, derierre escaping my skinny cord hipsters, my humiliation was complete.

It was not fun. It took a long time. Eventually I conceeded defeat and had to bundle his filthy lower half into clean clothes and slink out of there with as much dignity as I could muster. I was mortified. I still am.

Only a few weeks into his new school and already he's established himself as something of a character. Will the children remember and tease him mercilessly? Will he turn into a maladjusted adult with psychotic leanings...citing early childhood trauma as a cause? Will he forever be labelled as 'Poo Boy'? My poor little Egg. Saying that - if he pulls this stunt again there will be big trouble. Not only will he be boycotted from any decent school within a five mile radius, but I shall be forced to stop baking my beloved homemade bran muffins (of which it transpires he partook of yesterday...possibly more than one?...oops).

WE'RE BAAAAAAAAAACK!!

Ok Y'all, BIG apologies for being so quiet and absent for so long. In cyber terms we dropped off the face of the virtual earth when we moved and the phone company found themselves flummoxed with the straightforward task of appointing us a telephone number and hooking us up to broadband (a task they do about 10,000 times a day around the country).
At any rate, late last night around midnight we went LIVE once again, and I find myself maniacally typing away at my laptop whilst uploading new software and keeping half an eye on Egg and Ollie (who are wreaking havoc next door in the front room - last i checked Ollie was emptying the fireplace of coal and Egg was playing guitar with eyes glued to his favourite telly program 'The Night Garden')...oh well.

We've only just recovered from a very hardcore couple of months. If you've been following our trials and tribulations you'll know that in November we started packing up our old flat in preparation for the house move 1st December (which also coincided with the day that we were to fly to India for a two week holiday). Well we pulled it off (though it wasn't without casualty in the form of Auntie Ba who got deathly ill afterwards for ten days likely due to the nonstop childcare, lack of sleep, any nutricious meals and the insanity that comes from containing two stir-crazy monkeys 24/7 with no let-up.

At any rate, a week after we got back from India (which itself was very pleasant thank you very much) was Christmas and all the chaos which ensues as a result, and of course both boys got very ill with colds, and passed them onto the rest of us - my poor Dad taking the brunt of it (and who has only this week recovered from the nastiest virus in history).

Nonetheless Christmas was lovely (spirits helped on by copious amounts of champagne and the usual gluttony) and just after New Years we saw the arrival of my lovely in-laws who made the trip to see our new place and be here for Auntie Mo's wedding the first week of January. It was the first time we had ALL four grandparents in London at the same time and was nothing short of exhilarating for little Egg and Dumpie.

Auntie Mo being 'Auntie Mo' she swanned through the whole lead up to the wedding whilst the rest of us (mostly Auntie Ba, my mom and myself truth be told) killed ourselves trying to get everything sorted in time. It all came together beautifully on the day though - with Auntie Mo looking like a movie star of old in her glamourous silk gown and the rest of us yet again fuelled on by champagne and unbelievable amounts of delicious food. Weddings...what's not to love?

So you see, here at the wrong end of the year (or the 'right end' if you're an optomist and have someone in mind for cuddles on the approaching 14th of Feb) I find myself just beginning to settle into something which resembles normality (not for the average person of course - for me).

So much has happened in the past month that it would take a novel to contain it all, but suffice it to say that my little terrors have reached new levels of deviousness and inspire more fear than is healthy in me most days. I remember when I used to save up funny anecdotes to blog about...but these days it's more about editing OUT the bits that are too horrid to mention or too numerous to recount.

I shall leave you with a personal disaster which I still have not recovered from and which just about sums up despair of the toddler years I'm currently experiencing....

Last week I was cooking dinner and Egg was helping me with little clean up chores. The last thing I remember asking him was to empty out the bin in his upstairs bathroom (a lovely huge room with a large bathtub, toilet, bidet, and separate shower). Big mistake. Twenty minutes or so later (or maybe half an hour?) it suddenly dawned on me that it was quiet. Too quiet.

I ran upstairs and only then did the soundproofed walls give forth the sound of rushing water and as I appeared on the landing I saw a soaked one year old Dumpie slosh out of what appeared to be a swimming pool and onto a waterlogged hall carpet and disappear into his bedroom. I screamed.

Inside the bathroom was Egg, trouser legs rolled up, wading through 4-5 inches of water carrying a garbage bag in his hand and trying to pick up all the floating toys and debris swirling around the bathroom.

Words cannot describe my despair/anger/anxiety and without thinking about it I grabbed a huge container and started heaving bucketloads of water back into the bathtub like a maniac - trying in desperation to get the water level down before the ceiling collapsed (a very real scare if you saw what kind of water volume we were dealing with!).

Intermittantly I was frantically speed dialling Jay and Auntie Ba - hoping for a soundboard to vent and also advice on what to do when you find yourself wanting to wring your childs neck and on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Jay raced home and arrived about 45 minutes later. By that time the place stank of mildew, our lovely new dining room table below was covered in water, the ceiling stained a hideous brown and spreading, and I was livid and in shock.

A week later the ceiling has still not dried completely, our lovely new home smells like an abandoned old cottage by the sea, and day after day the monsters are plotting and succeeding in tormenting me - their poor mother - in new and delightfully ingenious new ways.

Long live the blog...it just might be the thing which saves my sanity in the long run. Instead of locking them up in a cupboard like 'Flowers in the Attic' I will simply escape here to my laptop, pop a few happy pills (must look into getting some sort of a prescription) and smile idiotically while the walls fall down around me. Literally. Happy New Year all :)