A nice quiet evening after a busy week of work sounded just the ticket. A movie for the kids, a shawarma sandwich to eat, and rattling through my favourite blogs.
But when is an evening ever ‘nice and quiet’ when small children are involved? There was a nanosecond in there, a split second of tranquility in which the boys looked serene, tucked up in the spare bed watching a DVD about pirates together, with the lights off.
It was such a cosy scene – their sweet faces lit up by the glow from the TV – that I decided to hop in (secretly hoping they’d let me lie quietly with my eyes shut, or at least not notice that I was looking at the iPad and not the movie).
But three in the bed is asking for trouble, isn’t it? They picked a pointless fight with each other. They both wanted to lie next to me. There were cross words exchanged. Someone got thirsty and needed a drink. They got in each other’s way. One rolled out.
“Mummy, I can’t see past your big fat boooobs,” grinned LB, poking me with his little fingers.
Then, a little later, while I was downstairs making some tea, there was the most enormous clunk, on our marble floor. Followed by silence, which I just knew was the calm before the storm.
I turned on my heel and shot up the staircase in a flash as the howling was unleashed.
“Get some ice,” DH called.
“What happened?” I almost yelled back, pulling a sobbing LB into my arms and peering at the egg-shaped bulge bursting out of his forehead.
Like a deer caught in the headlights, I forgot about the ice altogether, so it was a good job BB had the wherewithal to run to the freezer to get the Mr Bump coldpress. Bless him.
But being the mother of boys, with seven years of head bumps, bruises, finger crunches, knocks and kicks under my belt, I’ve learnt that a brother’s sympathy is rather short-lived – their empathy (unless it’s the two of them pitted against the world) about the same as a sabre-tooth tiger looking for his supper.
“He was running and slipped Mummy. Right there,” BB told me, pointing at the spot.
Before turning his attention squarely back to the TV: “Look, Mummy…look at that pirate boat! And those pirates with swords…quick, look!”
Boys, eh – talk about having the uncanny ability to ensure a ‘quiet evening’ ends in injury.