When Mummy actually thought today could get no worse, the fucking mouse died.

Undoubtedly one of the shittiest parts of parenting is illness. It’s debatable whether parenting the ill kids while being well, or parenting the well kids when ill is worse. Neither are pretty, and both are exhausting. 

By 1.30 am this morning,  Mummy was at that stage where she was just praying it would be morning soon. The writhing fever ridden little body next to her sharing the calpol soaked pillow was intent on pressing herself against Mummy while coughing so deeply it sounded more like a seal singing opera, badly. 

Daddy moved out into Lucy’s bed at about 2 am. Mummy made it until 6am with no sleep when she had to sneak out to try and persuade the twins downstairs quietly. Daddy slipped back into Mummy’s spot where he passed a further two hours sleeping while Mummy tried to manage the tribe downstairs. 

It was one of those days where nothing was ever going to be right. Mummy couldn’t find the dinosaur dressing gown and there was no way in hell a twatting Thomas dressing gown would ever substitute. Apparently Co-Co pops and Chocolate Pillows are entirely different and one cannot be substituted for the other despite the fact that they are both fucking rice puff chocolate flavoured highly sugary cereals which turn the milk chocolatey. In the toddler world, hunger strike is the answer to such an absurd abuse of spending power by a Mummy. Meanwhile, in the melted cheese camp, the cheese was too melty, the toast too toasty, and the milk was not cold enough. When Mummy could take it no longer, she ordered Daddy out of bed to PC world. Mummy’s plan was to buy each of the little darlings a kindle with earphones so that Mummy no longer had to mediate the war between Blaze and Strawberry Shortcake.

Having been virtually escorted to the til, then to the car with our purchases, we strapped in the screaming bundles, dosed them with calpol and drove to Pizza Hut so they could stuff themselves with an instant buffet. Pizza Hut don’t do weekend buffets. Cue more screaming. Having ordered our non buffet pizza, the fighting commenced. 1 tub of crayons and 4 kids NEVER fucking works. When Mummy asks for more crayon tubs, the servers look at Mummy in a condescending manner which pretty much says “I see you haven’t taught your children to share yet.” Mummy whispers obscenities quietly under her breath, and demands further crayons. And wine. More wine. 

We make it through the salad course fairly unscathed. Even the pizza doesn’t go too badly considering. It’s the ice-cream station that really messed it all up. Of course, each child must do their own. Only there is a delay between letting go of the ice-cream pump and the actual ice-cream stopping coming out. The less said about the sauce the better. When they applied the sprinkles, however, the lid fell clean off. Ben ‘s bowl filled up with mini smarties before several thousand of the little sweets skittered across the entire restaurant floor. Mummy mumbled something about never knowing we had been there. The staff didn’t laugh, and got the brooms out. We left quickly.

We shall skim over the rest of the afternoon. All we will say is it involved a great deal of crying, calpol, futile efforts to programme kindle fires, and several toddler toileting accidents. Just when Mummy was ordering the twins to get their PJ’s on an hour early as she could actually take no more, she realised she hadn’t seen mouse today. Patch also realised. 

Mouse was dead. Of all the fucking days to cark it, mouse chose the day Patch had a high temperature, and Mummy was at breaking point. Mummy is now drinking wine while soothing Patch and watching the Chronicles of Narnia (again). To be fair, we are missing at least 50% by way of vocal mourning for Jerry, God rest his mousely soul. Daddy says he will bury mouse when Patch is in bed. Mummy reckons Daddy is just going to bin him, which is probably wise as if he did get buried, dog would probably dig him up again and bring him back. 

Mummy doesn’t reckon on getting much sleep again tonight. Mummy is fed up to the gills of answering theological questions about how, when and why God selects souls for transport to heaven. Mummy just wants to be alone with her wine. Do cats in heaven eat hamsters in heaven? If not, why not? If they are in separate places who feeds them? Why can’t he just be here with us…..The thing is Mummy had a bit of a soft spot for the little mouse as well. Depending on how long the grieving process lasts, we may be getting a new mouse tomorrow.  😭😭🙏🍷

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