Bunnies, Bangs and Things that go Bump in the Day

You know how you have those days where the sun is shining, the kids are happy and everything goes right? Yes. Well, today was not one of those days.

We were heading off this morning to our local farm park to take part in a pet show, bringing along 'Bella' the rabbit. Except that we received an email to say that we couldn't bring the rabbit along if it hadn't had all its vaccinations. It hasn't. This news did not go down well, particularly as I had been using the pet show as a bribe for good behaviour during the week. So we had to take a toy rabbit instead. Needless to say, we did not win the show. No rosette for us.

And then on the way home...well. We've just paid a small fortune to have some new fencing done in order to create a larger parking area (the nice men finished the job at about midday), and yet I still somehow managed to hit our neighbour's car whilst trying to manouevre mine. It would not be controversial to say that they are not the most easy-going of neighbours. I have not plucked up the courage to make The Phone Call yet.

Daddy is singularly unimpressed. Especially given the fact that I now have about three metres more space than I did when we left the house. Though, to be fair, this would not be the first time I have alluded to my lack of spatial awareness, particularly where parking's concerned. 'Oh dear,' said Gilby, with characteristic understatement.

And then Gertie's little friend, Jenny, came round to play this afternoon. Her mum dropped her off just as Gilby was going down for a sleep.

'Perfect,' I thought. 'I'll get some ironing done while the two of them play nicely together.'

But then the next thing I heard was a terrific clatter and some horrendous bumps followed by some screaming. Both girls had been pushing against the stairgate and the whole thing had come away, so they had surfed down the stairs (no carpets as we are trying to sand the boards at the moment...) from top to bottom and landed in an undignified heap in the kitchen. End result? Two hysterical three-year-olds, lots of tears, an apologetic phone call to the other mum, chocolate, cuddles, plenty of applications of Mr Bump, and miraculously, no trip to casualty.

Glass of wine, anyone?

Any Old Iron

The Ironing Monologue:

What sort of time d'you call this? Any sane person would have done this the night before, you know, when the kids were asleep. It's called 'prior planning'. Shirt for Daddy and dress for Gertie. It would be so much easier if you weren't trying to make breakfast at the same time. That way marmite might not appear on one or both items. Oh - you're not putting me away just yet. There must be more to come.

A short while later.

Do stop smiling so smugly; they're only shirts. You've managed a grand total of four - that's not even a week's worth. And anyway, everyone but you knows that you should start with the collar and then the yoke. Do you even know what a yoke is? Some starch would be nice. I suppose the nozzle's still blocked and you've neglected to do anything about it. Still, you seem to have your own 'unique' technique, don't you? Draping a sleeve in the cat-litter: all part of the process.

And don't pretend you know what you're doing with that dial. Don't you think it's about time you added some water? Some of us are a little bit thirsty here, particularly with the way you use the 'steam' setting so unpredictably.

Tut. Tut. Was that a little swear word I heard? Don't you know why I've left that nasty black mark on the front? It's because you don't clean me. There. Serves you right.

What's that coming out now? Your jeans. That must mean that you haven't given them enough time to dry. Again. No other reason I would see them, is there? It's not really my job, is it? The waistband will still be damp after and you'll only regret it later when you have a red itchy mark around that roll that passes for a tummy. Don't you have anything else to wear?

Blimey: tea cloths too. That's a rarity. Your mother must be coming over. That explains the pathetic attempt to impersonate a domestic goddess.

You're fooling no-one, especially not her.

This is my second attempt at the writing workshop, courtesy of Josie at Sleep is for the Weak. I have opted to imagine that a familiar household object is self-aware and conscious, and have written a short monologue from the point of view of my iron. We don't have the best relationship: I have only been blogging for just over a month, but ironing has already come up on several occasions during that short space of time so it seemed appropriate!

A holiday from my 'little holiday'.

I'm far to busy to be sitting here doing this. That is because we are going on 'holiday' on Thursday. I use the inverted commas because I do not see how travelling abroad with two small children can legitimately be described in such terms: particularly as one definition of holiday is given as 'days exempt from labour'. Oh the irony.

The sheer level of preparation is frightening. I won't even begin to discuss the problems associated with trying to organise a passport photograph for a newborn baby. (Suffice to say it took just the four trips to the post office using their check and send service.) And speaking of irony, I am ironing things that would never make it to the ironing basket under normal circumstances, but in order to fit the required quantity of clothes, nappies, muslins, towels and general baby accoutrements into the ridiculously small luggage allowance provided by a well known budget airline, must be pressed into a small a space as possible. And we must take twice as many clothes for Gertie as she is potty-training but still having a number of 'axe-didents' as she likes to call them. Once I would have moaned about not having enough allowance to transport all my shoes (I took nine pairs for my hen-weekend); now I will be lucky if I remember to put my own on before leaving the house.

We should look like the best-dressed family in the world in comparison to our usually dishevelled state, but unfortunately by the time we arrive at our destination all the careful hours of laundry will be rendered useless and we will all be just as creased as usual.

When we get there we are staying in a hotel. 'What luxury!' a pre-motherhood me might have been heard to cry. But now that simply means that there will be two large people and two small people inhabiting a single room for the duration of the trip. Not a recipe for happiness. It means lights out at 7.30pm. (I am praying for a balcony and an outdoor mini-bar - unlikely.) It means Gertie waking up every time Gilbert needs to feed through the night. And it means trying to entertain a toddler and a baby without all the usual tools of the trade that can be found at home: no swingy chair, no play-gym, no bulging toy-box...

My husband describes maternity leave as my 'little holiday'. So now I am having a holiday from my holiday - oh the joy! The list of things that needs to be done before we go away is not getting any shorter. Perhaps I sound a little ungrateful. It is because the spectre of a three hour flight and airport security looms large in my consciousness.

So I don't have time to be doing this blog. But I feel a little better for getting it all out of my system. I need a holiday.