Ahh February has been a quiet month - of sorts. Rarely a blog. Barely a thought beyond clearing, sorting and packing 10 years of London living (it's a phenomenon how much can be crammed into such a small space and how rarely I ever used that Kenwood Mutlipro food processor that was still crusted in pumpkin soup from 2009). It's been all the more fun with a 1 year old, 2.5 year old and - 6 month old in tow.
A particularly favourite day was last Tuesday when Fred was evidently still not over his first bout of Norovirus. We couldn't hide in the flat forever (tempting as it was given the Baltic front engaging the UK this month) and the doc had said he was not contagious anymore - so what's the worst that could happen?
A trip to the local supermarket affiliated with John Lewis. Buggy laden with ready meals (by this point and only 5 days prior to Move Day I can't be arsed to cook anything, possibly ever again), cleaning products and chocolate - off to master the self check out. The eldest is mid asking the one-bloody-hundredth 'why/what/how/when/where' question regarding an air conditioning unit in the ceiling which I am finding impossible to answer or explain. 'Air?' 'Well it's what you breathe and whilst you can't see it'- saved by a vomit interjection from Fred. Reflexes of a cat ensure I catch the projectile puréed pear and cornflake bile soup in a perfect cup of my hands. Nice. I am bent over desperately ensuring no puke seepage, trying to bat off the tirade of questions and comments from my inquisitor about why I am in this predicament and flailing my leg behind me to try and get an assistants attention. I often look ridiculous but this takes it to another level. Holding the contents of my child's stomach in my hands, a running commentary from the other, kicking my leg behind me like a knackered old mare with a spasm, the self check-out kindly demanding I 'swipe another item or pay' I am stuck to the spot. Just prior to getting the assistants attention a famous TV chef walks past raising his eyebrows and possibly smirking.
A pre-tea time trip to the Household Waste Recycling Centre. This is/was a MUCH revered destination - loud noises, big containers, huge machinery, rubbish..... And a satisfying sense of life spring cleaning for mummy (there have been no questions on where the enormous plastic self revolving, singing ball with flashing lights amongst other migraine-inducing culprits have slipped off to..). Post dump, having shedded the last of our unwanted items with the promise of pasta and hot cross buns in the air my cherubs giggle at each other behind me. Ahhhhh life isn't too shabby, the boys have been quiet for 12 minutes, learning about recycling and watching mummy throw big plastic bags into huge metal containers and now they are enjoying each others company rather than poking or wrestling. Then I over hear a snippet of the conversation taking place. 'Lets play SPITTING!!' Followed by more laughter and a torrent of raspberries/misty spray across the back of my neck, then more laughter which, apparently on a young sensitive stomach is enough to invoke another episode of spasmodic vomiting.
Roll on temperatures above 4oC, hours spent running around outside not desperately hiding in buildings and vehicles to avoid frostbiten fingers, and hopefully a little less puke
A pre-tea time trip to the Household Waste Recycling Centre. This is/was a MUCH revered destination - loud noises, big containers, huge machinery, rubbish..... And a satisfying sense of life spring cleaning for mummy (there have been no questions on where the enormous plastic self revolving, singing ball with flashing lights amongst other migraine-inducing culprits have slipped off to..). Post dump, having shedded the last of our unwanted items with the promise of pasta and hot cross buns in the air my cherubs giggle at each other behind me. Ahhhhh life isn't too shabby, the boys have been quiet for 12 minutes, learning about recycling and watching mummy throw big plastic bags into huge metal containers and now they are enjoying each others company rather than poking or wrestling. Then I over hear a snippet of the conversation taking place. 'Lets play SPITTING!!' Followed by more laughter and a torrent of raspberries/misty spray across the back of my neck, then more laughter which, apparently on a young sensitive stomach is enough to invoke another episode of spasmodic vomiting.
Roll on temperatures above 4oC, hours spent running around outside not desperately hiding in buildings and vehicles to avoid frostbiten fingers, and hopefully a little less puke
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