Twas the night before school…

The night came before Big T returned to school. 2 whole weeks I had to sew up the hem on his school trousers, still not done and hanging on the stair gate, 2 whole weeks to sort the bag of stuff for charity which was still spread throughout the house, 2 whole weeks to collect up, sort and label the stuff I want to sell at the NCT sale THIS Saturday which takes a million years to do and still not done (the last sale of kiddie stuff I did brought in a grand total of £4.60, an amount not to be sniffed at if you ask me) however much fun was had by all instead of jobs that needed to be done.

Middle F had started to move away from the Lego storage box hat slightly and on a couple of occasions his ‘toy’ of choice to take out in the car was the family plastic pee bottle, not ideal.


The night before school return I lay in bed feeling really jealous of the famous ‘4 month sleep regression’. Never before did anyone warn me that I’d be jealous of of another child’s regression in sleep. However I figured that in order to ‘regress’ from something, you needed to be half decent at it in the first place, to have something to regress from. Little B is one of many wonderful things, but a sleeper he is not. He too had 2 whole weeks to pull some really shocking nights when I had half a chance of staying in bed a bit longer in the morning, but decided to save his real, shit hot, all-nighter for the night before school. Love. Him.

We have now made the heart wrenching move of shipping him out to his own room, at over 5 months we could not shoe horn him into his basket any longer so it was finally time for ‘operation own room’. He didn’t  like it. I didn’t  like it. However I needn’t have pined after him for too long as after him waking at 9, 10, 11, 12 and 1 with me feeding and settling him, I’d lost the will to live and dragged my sorry arse, and his, back into my room.

After waking hourly, by 4am he had enough of milk and was straining for a poo. Fair play to him, it is uncomfortable to sleep when you desperately need a dump, the boy had other things on his mind. Especially when he was struggling to go. This then triggered ‘operation help to poo’ which consisted of massaging and leg cycling. So there I was, 4am with the light on my phone like a medical treatment light, massaging his tummy (it’s all about the clockwise motion) and doing bicycle legs with his chubby little pins. At last we had lift off and a poo was done. Rejoice. I then began feeding him again whilst reading random crap on my phone about Ash from Diversity’s ‘incredible, unrecognisable new look’ (which was merely a hair cut and a bit of facial hair) and all about cage diving with great whites (which I decided I would completely and utterly SHIT my pants doing, so that was a no go. Good to see that ‘shark activity’ was at its highest at the moment though and that they were out in force being ‘playful’ that day. Good times.)

The next morning I felt, and looked, like a bag of shite. Big T was excited about returning to school which was great and enjoyed poking a hole in his bread to give it a ‘bum hole’ which was the highlight of Middle F’s morning. Even bread needs to poo too.

Middle F had been watching Fireman Sam that morning, still seeming oblivious to the fact that there must be some dodgy connection between Station Officer Steele and Elvis (I’m guessing SOS has probably had untoward advances towards Norman Price which were stumbled upon and discovered by Elvis) otherwise there is no way on this earth he would keep Elvis employed, and not on capability, or Norman out of the young offenders institution. There lies the behaviour of a man with a sordid past.

Middle F went into role play, putting out fires left right and centre with his trusty equipment, the centre of his potty for a hat and a straw for a hose. The poor relations dressing up kit.


We loaded up the buggy and set off for the school run. Middle F quickly found a big fat stick to be his new hose and jacked in the straw. He had some serious fires to tackle now and meant business.

The school’s headteacher often stands on the gate to see people out and do a polite meet and greet. I usually fly past her like a bat out of hell whilst chasing after Middle F but not that day. This time he decided to stop in front of her, waving and shaking his stick at her body whilst shouting out his own language in a very forceful manner. It was all a bit awkward as she commented on the size of his stick and I muttered something about it being a hose whilst rounding him up and moving him on. This was then repeated as we walked down the path to a dear little old lady who looked a little nervous to say the least. Immediately had flashes of him accidentally doing a bit of granny bashing as he got over zealous in the wielding of his hose. Thankfully managed to coax him back into the buggy eventually by saying we need to fight a fire quickly and he needed to board the engine.


Got to the pedestrian crossing where it is Middle F’s priority to be the one who presses the button first. Alas that day was not his and he crossed the road dragging his stick on the ground and muttering under his breath in disgust that the moment didn’t belong to him.

Once returning from the nursery run I sat on the sofa looking around the room and thinking how it looked as though we’d literally been burgled from all the crap all over the floor.

I started to wish that I had a magic cleaning thing that cleared up all the mess or wish that I actually liked coffee because if I did a coffee would have been good right then to keep me from falling asleep standing up and dropping on my arse… But then I thought that if I really and truly had one wish, just one wish,  it should probably just be to have a child that sleeps…..or maybe one that comes with the cleaning thing as a free gift too….



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