I’ve just had possibly the finest few hours of my parenting life.
The BUBs played “vets and jungles” while I pottered in my slippers. The baby slept straight after breakfast which left the boys to have a snowman bath bomb, full of delightful squealing and mutual drenching. When she woke up the baby got in too, splashing and standing and being happily jostled by her brothers. Soap bubbles on noses, wisps of hair, joyous chuckling, it was like it is in the adverts. They dried each other, played “towel mummies” and had naked “bum races” along the landing.
We watched films, had lunch all together at the table after which the baby decided to have another little snooze. We should go and get feet measured for new shoes but it’s all just so lovely here. It won’t be lovely there. I want to stay here.
This is after weeks of gut-wrenching lurgies, howling tantrums and hideous behaviour, nothing like the adverts, or like an advert for condoms. After weeks of trying to make Christmas happy but fighting against illness, of longing for a moment’s peace, there is this.
It’s exactly the same phenomena as when your split ends are causing you psychological problems but on plonking yourself down in the hairdresser’s
chair you suddenly look the best you have ever looked.
School tomorrow. The end of the best and the worst times is upon us. Until the next time.