Every morning so far this holidays I’ve been woken up to the sounds of children fighting, actually more than just fighting – full on screaming, toy boxes being tipped over, fridge stripped of food (they break every lock I’ve bought), Georgie screeching at whoever has dared touch something she is holding (glass cracking screech), Lucy voicing a low-level continual nag at whoever is trying to hinder what evil she is trying to do/steal/eat/hide, before Mummy gets up. During all this Henry will come into my room, general every five minutes from the second the sun lights the sky, and stand there and chatter to himself, spit a little and leave when I sit up and threaten to disembowel him if he doesn’t go away. Throughout it all Thomas sleeps, not because he is a heavy sleeper, but because he has been keeping me awake at the other end of the day. He spent till 1am jumping up and down in his room, I swear the kid has a case of energy drinks stashed in his room somewhere. Even as I type Tom is still sleeping, despite five children running in and out of his room.
Anyway this morning I woke up to the same sounds, or so I thought. Turns out the kids were not fighting, but quietly playing with their toys for once. But my frazzled brain had decided that I needed to have my usual wake up call, and I dreamt that the kids were fighting. Would you smegging believe it. It was so vivid, I even believed that I was telling them off. I sat up in tired frustration about to evict a child from my room, to discover I was alone. I have decided that my mind is just as evil as my children.
I guess if you threaten to pull someones arms off and beat them with the soggy ends, often enough, they might just start to think: Hey mum could be serious, and if she rips my arms off how will I get into the pantry and eat all the nutella with a spoon?