Sunday night – 10.40pm. I am shattered. So tired I could just sleep right here on the sofa…
But I don’t.
For some crazy, masochistic reason I am still awake, sitting here, watching trashy TV and typing this new post.
You see I have had a busy day. A busy Sunday. When you have three boys (or just any number of children of any gender really) Sunday is not a day of rest.
Sunday started for me at 7am when Boy 3 started stirring, gurgling and sucking his hands. Yes, he is only 12 weeks old, but he was clearly communicating with me:
“Morning mummy. I am awake. I need a clean nappy. And I am starving. Change my nappy please and get your boobs out – I want milk!”
And as I am changing the requested nappy, Boy 2 gets up and wants to cuddle and chat and so we go back to my bed, the three of us, and we cuddle and chat and make the baby giggle and smile. (Yes – there may be too many ‘ands’ in that sentence, but my blogging is not correct grammatical Standard English, but it works for my purpose nonetheless!) Anyway, then Boy 1 wakes up, sleepily wanders into my room and joins in the cuddles – my three boys and I, having a group hug and it’s not even 7.30am!
And then we are up, bathed, washed, dressed, baby fed and the older boys are having their cereal, while I pack up the car for rugby. I have remembered the pushchair, rain cover, rugby boots, wellie boots, warm socks, poppy scarf (it is Remembrance Sunday), Jaffa cakes, water, jumpers, coats, gloves, snacks, camping chair and the kitchen sink, and all before 9am.
And then we are off! Who knew a Sunday morning would be such a military operation every week?! Two hours and a lot of mud later (post rugby training) we head back home from Canterbury, via Pets at Home, as the cat has decided it is too cold to poo outdoors and so we have run out of cat litter.
On arriving home, and at my request, Boy 2 strips down to his pants in the porch, so he doesn’t walk mud through the house (yes – a little Sunday treat for the neighbours!) and I run a deep, warm bubble bath, at his request. And while Boy 1 entertains the baby, I help Boy 2 to wash off the mud that had managed to cover his legs, despite him wearing trousers. (How does that happen? I still cannot work it out).
And then I hear Boy 1 yell from downstairs “Mum, the baby’s crying!” and so while Boy 2 dries himself after his bath and gets dressed into his pyjamas (yes it is only 1.30pm!), I see to the baby Boy 3, who has had an explosive poo. I forgive him the crying, as I would also cry if I had poo spread across the bottom half of my body and up my back. It was one of those poos that required a bath in order to get him clean, so whilst Boy 1 ran a bath for the baby, I cleaned up what I could from his body and clothes.
And then upstairs…and since Boy 1 is 9 years old I assumed he could run a bath at a suitable temperature for his baby brother…but no! Cue the screaming baby, who had just been put into a cold bath, and he made it known he was less than impressed. Eventually, with hot water added, I bathed the baby and dried him, whilst shouting to the other two to start their homework.
Fast forward 15 minutes and we are back downstairs, and whilst I make a quick bagel with chocolate spread for the older boys (no, they are definitely not having a nutritious roast dinner today) the baby is once again put on his play mat, to giggle and smile at the inert hanging toys over his head, whilst his brothers start their homework.
Boy 1 gets on with it for a while…
Boy 2 needs help – it is homework that requires him to describe himself using similes. Fast as… Lazy as… Large as… etc. This is what he came up with:
Fast as a clouded leopard (I didn’t even know what one of those was)
Lazy as Dad on an early morning (I did tell him Dad wasn’t actually lazy, but he wrote it anyway)
Large as a dragon on tiptoes (Can’t argue with this one)
Small as a crouching ant (Or this one – although can ants actually crouch?)
Busy as my parents clearing the loft (Guess what we have been doing lately)
Loud as a cute baby screaming his head off (Guess what Boy 3 has been doing lately)
There is more, but you get the picture right?
And in between my cries of “When have you EVER seen that word spelt like that?” Boy 1 piped up with a random question about Jamaica.
“What are you on about? Jamaica? Aren’t you doing your English homework?” And it turns out he was – he was reading a poem by a Jamaican poet (Valerie Bloom – she is fab by the way). So I then put on my best Jamaican accent to re-read the poem to him, as that is the only way to truly comprehend her work. Boy 1 thought that was brilliant, and had a go himself, and so the madness continued.
By now it was 3pm and I had also done two loads of washing (and not even got to the dirty kit yet, still strewn across the porch). I had fed the baby three times, changed three nappies, cleaned out the cat’s litter tray and dished up the wholesome bagel lunch.
Then I hear a key in the door and hubbie is home. Hallelujah! But then he mutters those awful words “we need to finish clearing the loft out” because yes, tomorrow the building work in the loft starts. We have spent the last month clearing our s**t out of the loft and redistributing it around the rest of the house (which is winding us both up) and there is still a bit left to do. You can barely move in the garage and the boys’ rooms for our redistributed s**t, but we are still not quite done.
So we do that for an hour or so, in between calling at the boys to keep the baby amused, and before we know it, it is 5pm. And we are smiling as finally the loft is empty.
Then hubbie has a brilliant suggestion – he will take the boys to the Golden Arches (Boy 2 still in his pyjamas/onesie/ chavvy get-up!) for a well-balanced healthy tea, since he is too tired to cook, while I feed the baby again and put him to bed.
And then it is 7pm and Boy 1, currently the only remaining unbathed boy, has his bath and I then have mine (finally 15 minutes peace), while hubbie goes to the chippy for our healthy dinner. Cooking is totally out of the question this evening.
Whilst we eat our dinner, the evening plays out a bit like this:
8pm – Boy 1 and 2 go to bed.
8.03pm – Boy 2 comes downstairs and begs for chips (He is told ‘no’ and sent back to bed!)
8.08pm – Boy 1 comes downstairs to complain about Boy 2. He is sent back upstairs with the threat of loss of computers for his brother.
8.15pm – Boy 1 comes downstairs again. The threat hasn’t worked. Boy 2 still being a pain.
8.17pm – Boy 2 joins us downstairs to see why Boy 1 hasn’t gone back upstairs. (We were hoping Boy 2 would have fallen asleep, with no-one there to torment.)
8.18pm – Hubbie and I try really hard not to lose our s**t with the boys.
Fast forward to 9.30pm and hubbie sensibly decides to go to bed since he is knackered.
And yet I am still here, now at 11.38pm finishing off this post. You see, I may be absolutely shattered (as you probably are, having read about our chaotic day) but I need this time out. I need this boy-free time. I need time to reflect on the day. Play it over again in my mind and realise what a crazy day is has been.
I was going to refer to today as a major parenting fail, but actually it wasn’t. We got to rugby on time. All boys were fed and cleaned. Homework was completed. The loft was emptied. The cat will live another day to poo again in his litter tray.
I think you could chalk this up as a fairly productive day. (Yes we may have all eaten crap food but we will try again tomorrow to be better at that!)
Goodbye Sunday – now I must leave you to go to bed, as I have remembered I need to be up early tomorrow to iron the boys trousers for school!
And so to sleep….