I've posted before about how much hard work Saturdays seem to be. Not the relaxing weekend experience I always anticipate.
Last weekend was Gertie's ballet show. Gilby was his usual 'Eeyore' in the morning, claiming that he was 'shop-sick' as we gathered groceries. I say 'Eeyore', though indeed he makes Winnie the Pooh's friend seem like the life and soul of the party. His glass isn't just half-empty, it appears to have sprung a leak. On this occasion, however I do him a little injustice. We came home and he took an unprecedented day-time nap. For two hours. Eddie also slept, and Gertie was already at the dress rehearsal. It was unexpectedly peaceful. So much so that I was reluctant to wake both boys up. I
We left for the show with not much time to spare. Gilby got sick in the car so great clothing improvisation took place and we arrived just seconds before the performance began. It was beautiful, but long, and I spent three hours wrestling with a one-year-old in a darkened room, which is exhausting. He didn't seem to want to sit still and watch the ballet for some reason.
We left to be greeted by a flat-tyre on the car. Yes, Cheryl had let us down. Let herself down. Well, let her tyre down, anyway. Balls. Hungry children. Very late. Call Daddy and head for the Harvester. We stayed the night with the grandparents and my string of pearls broke at the supper table, cascading across the dining room.
Bed was a blissful release, I'd had enough of Saturday. Ah, perhaps that's where Gilby gets it from: the Eeyore-gene. I have only myself to blame.