So we went to a little pre- Christmas soiree last night. Jollying ourselves up on a rainy winter evening to dash through the night to Diane’s house where mulled wine, home-made flapjacks (the best in the world Di!) and a lady who wanted to sell us pampery bits of this and that, awaited.
We smothered ourselves in body scrub, ate too much chocolate, watched an eye make up demonstration, had a cup of tea, giggled a lot and then in the manner of all nights out undertaken by daring Mommies found the fun over before it began.
Julie was summoned home by a distraught husband thoroughly up the wall with a three year old, a six week old baby, and a stomach upset. So off we trooped. Julie back to bedlam and me to the bundle of joy that is Mark, who had at long last accepted that babysitting his son in the evening could indeed be considered part of his parental duties.
And there he was. All at home in the tidiest house in Britain due obviously to some over-exertion on his part. Hoovered, polished, spick and span it was because plainly, the man just can’t help himself. And all before settling down in front of Love Actually, feet up, a cup of tea at his side and the paper on his knee.
HE HAD APPARENTLY FORGOTTEN THAT HE DOESN’T ACTUALLY LIVE IN MY HOUSE ANYMORE.
Because so enamoured was he in being the man of the house again, he proceeded to issue a little lecture on the benefits of keeping the house tidy! I know. The bloody cheek of it. It made me feel funny and cross and sad all at the same time.
I shoeed him out and poured a glass of wine and then I had a little dance. Partying all by myself like it was 1999 or something. And then I went to bed, certain that having that much fun would guarantee trouble this morning. And oh how right how I was.
Thanks to a run in with some flour dusted braised beef at nursery, Finley is sick as a dog and downright crazy with it. While I can cope with the physical symptoms of Celiac Disease, I find Finley's emotional reaction to feeling rubbish so much more difficult to deal with from a child usually sweet enough to eat.
So I have watched the poor little mite head butt the floor over and over again this morning. Had my bum bitten. Spent half an hour explaining why Daddy doesn’t live here anymore and why Nana probably wouldn’t appreciate a 6.30 am wake up call. And finally found myself pinned to the armchair by a naked three year old, him in a Gladiator helmet and me wearing a pink apron and Santa hat ensemble to be proud of, while we endured hours and hours and hours of Nickelodeon because I am too scared to argue with my minature Russell Crowe.
This you see is what happens, when girls just try to have fun…
P.S: I think you should know that as I type this, I am , under duress from Finley, wearing a Darth Vadar mask.