My Sunday morning started circa 2am* when i was summoned by our 3 year old with hysterical screams of “MY NEED A WEE!”
Toby is potty trained during the day now and has been for a good few weeks. We are still putting him in a (disposable) pull-up at night but more for our benefit than his. He never pees in it. I just can’t bear the thought of having to strip urine sodden beds first thing in the morning. And there’s the small matter of our washing machine being close to blowing up any day now.
After calming him down, helping him on to his potty, and settling him back into his bed i fell asleep in there. Rudy woke at 4am and Chris came in to give me a nudge. I was vaguely aware of his presence but fell back asleep for another hour at which point he came back in to tell me Rudy needed feeding. He later told me i had stolen Toby’s entire duvet from him and was cocooned up in it leaving him with nothing. Bad Mummy. I plodded through to Rudy’s room, and fed him, i briefly thought i’d succeeded in cuddling him back to sleep but then he sat on my head and there was a distinct aroma of raw sewage. At that point i knew it was Game Over.
Before 9am came around Rudy had experienced his first head injury of the day (with a bonus bust lip, so my robe was covered in blood, adding to the dramatic effect) Toby had unpacked every soft toy Rudy owns (that would be A LOT) on to his bed, i’d tidied the living room and prepared breakfast for the 3 of us (Chris is not someone who can eat breakfast first thing in the morning, which as i understand it, is exactly when breakfast is supposed to be eaten) and eaten my own breakfast.
There’s nothing easy about Sunday mornings in our house. They are just the same as every other morning. Frantic and chaotic. That’s whether we have somewhere we need to be or not. Even the mornings that could and surely should be leisurely seem not to be. Small people don’t seem to ‘get’ leisurely.
In fact, with us both being shift workers, Sunday mornings usually involve work, for either one of us, but often me. I work a lot of Saturday and/or Sunday nights so when most of the nation are “TGI Friday!” i am all “Urgh…it’s the weekend…”
Not this weekend though. I’m on annual leave. Did i tell you that? I may have mentioned it once or twice before 😉
So today, in spite of the night of musical beds, and the early wake up call, and the baby diarrhea, and general chaos, and err…blood splatter, i did eventually manage to recreate that Sunday feeling with the aid of some coffee, bacon, and egg soup, i mean, poached eggs, well actually…they were fried eggs in the end. Because, as it turns out, i really, and i mean REALLY, cannot poach an egg. Not even to save my life. If it were to come to it (I’m not sure what kind of a bizarre scenario might lead to me poaching eggs in exchange for my own mortality but you never know do you). I know, i know, how hard can it be?! People keep giving me tips- Use vinegar! Use salt! Make a vortex! (Make a vortex?! I mean, wtf?!) Nothing works. I have the same trouble with omelettes. They always turn out like some kind of inedible scrambled egg hybrid. I’m just no good with eggs.
We kinda got the weekend vibe going nonetheless though, i was really only missing a morning paper. And i haven’t read one of those in years.
We’ve now got the afternoon family movie thing going on (Lilo and Stitch) and snack time is providing me with a few moments peace.
It’s nice. I can see why the Monday-Friday 9-5’ers look forward to this.
*Disclaimer: This is an approximation. I do not actually know what time it was. I do not know who, where, or hell, even what i am when woken suddenly from sleep. It seems pointless to consult time telling devices in such a scenario.