.. there would be a cold, cold bottle of Pinot Grigio in my fridge.
I am sweating my ass off. I have spent the last half an hour running up and down the stairs between whingeing children. The Toddler, having lulled me into a false sense of security by getting ready for bed beautifully, started moaning "Mammy.... Mammy.... Mammy" as soon as I started trying to find my kitchen under the pots and pans and stray bits of cous cous. The New'un did a poo and was very unhappy about that. The Toddler demanded to go to the toilet three times, and only did two wees. The New'un, once changed, kept spitting her dummy out and not being able to find it again. The Toddler then started screaming and telling me that she hurt. The New'un probably wants boob, but is no way no how getting that until the demon above has fallen asleep. Calpol has been shoved in The Toddler, whether she was fibbing or not. The New'un has given up hope of me ever going to see what it is she wants, and is zonked out in a weird, half-rolled over position on her playmat. My house is some kind of greenhouse and the first pair of trousers to hand this morning was an uncomfortabley warm pair or black jeans.
And I have no wine.
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