Georgette is dismayed by the savagery with which her siblings attack the (egg-free) chocolate cake mix.
Well creeping Jesus, that was quite a week. On Friday, skipping happily into the hospital emergency room, Ivy said 'It's all about me again, Mum, isn't it!' Yes, I agreed, trying not to let my face betray the sick anxiety I felt over the vicious red rash that was covering most of her body and the giant tick I had just discovered embedded in her head. 'Ivy, Ivy, Ivy, Ivy, Ivy!' she shouted with joy.
The tick was duly extracted and since then, her rash has almost entirely cleared up so hopefully the series of allergic reactions she's had this week have been caused by that, and not the egg allergy the docs are testing for. Imagine my hilarity when her forehead and nose swelled up hugely on her day of kindy orientation. It was not an auspicious start - Ivy was cranky at me for not respecting some princess-related demand of unreasonableness on the way to school, so on her first meeting with her new teacher she looked like a small disgruntled Neanderthal. Gifted and Talented classroom? I asked. Just down the hall is it?
It was scary stuff. Meanwhile, she's in fine form and obsessed with craft so while the house is an shocking mess..at least half the mess glitters, which is not nothing. Ted remains a small, affable lunatic, always looking for nude fun, and still crapping in corners.
George is our beautiful squiggly buddy, who's decided she will only sleep when held by an actual person, so we are living in squalor. We're so confined to barracks right now what with the breastfeeding and the toilet-training.
Next weekend, Ivy is having a flower fairy tea party for her birthday. We have house-guests plus a small contingent of five-year-old fairies to cook and craft for. This week my plan is purely domestic. I'm declaring war on clutter and I plan to be super-organised in order to not end this Friday night like the last, where Keith sent me to Time Out at 7pm for being a stressed-out, neurotic pain in the arse with my crazy eyes too desperately focused on the clock counting down to children's bedtime.
No jury would have convicted me mind you. In fact a jury of mothers would have bought me a drink and two soothing Italian manservants for just making it to 7pm Friday without taking off for a little anonymous hotel down the coast and a nice lie-down, and a fluffy bathrobe, and a room service club sandwich, and a bath...and...and...
Where was I?
Yes, next week, onward and upward. I plan to be on top of all my tasks and maintain a level of good-natured amusement at all antics from glitter glue on the floor to poos in the shoes.
Breathe. Smile. Stomach in! Tits out!