Some days around here, I feel as though I am at the mercy of terrorists. Tiny, very very cute terrorists, but terrorists all the same.
Ever since the boys realised that they could use their combined power for evil, my house has been turned upside down.
Yesterday, they plundered the fridge while my back was turned. The only indication that anything was awry was the deathly silence that I have learned means serious trouble (last week it meant that my last fancy makeup palette was being smeared all over my last fancy bed linen). I crept into the sitting room to find my walls, windows and rug ‘painted’ with vanilla yoghurt. Delicious. And really fucking hard to clean off.
The older one has learned to scale our kitchen counters, meaning that nothing is safe, and loves nothing more than sharing his spoils with his younger brother. So far, that means: olive oil, sugar, salt and pepper (my boys are nothing if not seasoned) all mashed into the floor.
Bedtime has become a takedown of epic proportions. My previous happy-to-go-to-sleep two year old has decided that the land of nod is not for him, and is staging scream-offs that render him almost voice-less by the time he eventually drops off. What was previously a quiet, happy time with his Dad has turned into a tag team of parental shout downs – whoever manages to get him to lie down is the winner.
Meanwhile, last night, the one year old decided to wake up at 9pm, and try to walk. On my bed. So, for the ensuing two and a half hours I lay beside him as he threw himself up, and down, and on his head, until eventually he fell asleep, arse in the air, snoring like a wilderbeast.
Right now I have separated the pack. The smaller one is at my feet, biting my ankles like a baby lion, while the bigger one has been bribed with my iPad and an app that I am going to regret downloading in… oh, 2.3 seconds…