A matter of Sacrifice.

26th March

Every morning I awake to wanting. Not my own (although that follows quietly), but the wanting of the children.
This of course all happens at least ¾ of an hour before I am due to get up.
First job is to sort out petty arguments over ownership, which hurts me deeply.
The months, years spent installing the sharing ethos, the ‘you two are special, the bond between you is deeper than other siblings because your twins’ all goes out of the window when the click start Disney game goes on.
This is of course, just on the way to the toilet. Once seated the door is flung open and I am regaled with last nights dreams, the injustices of the morning and finally, to stop me imploding right there, mid wee, comes ‘I love you mum’. Grrrr.

We then start the dressing ritual, which starts easily, and always ends in tears, either over choice of clothing or naughty knots in the hair.
No matter how often I try to explain that putting food in your hair causes it to knot, still the ritual is the same.
I may now have a two-second window in which to phoo, however I am beaten to the throne by other half who somehow claims the right to a calm awaking and a private phoo. Bastard.

I hold my phoo in, trip over the already meowing cat (this means feed me btw), and go downstairs to find the usual double wee and phoo left by dog one and two.
As I have said before it is hard to tell who is responsible for what and thus reprimand is futile and ultimately unsatisfying. I get no release from slapping the dogs, or the children, or the other half. Mental note – must drink more strong larger & focus my anger.
Anyway, no time to daydream, its down to the garden to release the chickens at which point the large, soon to be dead white cockerel slashes my ankles in a ninja jump that only Tarrintino could direct.

I hobble back to the house to be greeted by screaming, this time over, nothing as far as I can see.
Twin two is now sporting Jagger lips (having the Jaggers means having the ump in our house) and further probing enlightens me to the knowledge that twin one said twin two doesn’t like apples and twin two replied wotever over and over. Arh, the joys and complexities of sibling humiliation.
I have been awake exactly fifteen minutes now.

Breakfast. So, kettle is on, (with only slightly more hope than Jesus had of actually turning boiling water into coffee) get bowls out, pour coco pops, put mats on table followed by bowls and wait for the siblings to appear. I know that all sounded really easily, and it probably is the easiest bit, if you don’t include the having to open and shut a baby gate dividing the kitchen to the dining room every time you go through.
The gate is there not to protect the children from the horrors of the kitchen, but to stop the dogs coming in and having, amongst other things, a luxury phoo on the once beige rug in the lounge.
Each opening and closing (of which there can be up to eight, depending on how awake/angry I am) involves at least one of the dog’s heads being smashed between the bars as it/they try to come into the dining room to retrieve scraps of coco pops from the table.
This may confuse you, so I will explain.

Our dogs eat well. They eat the best dried food available. On most Sundays, they have a roast dinner portion each. This is their treat. They do not have sweet things.
I should also point out that both the dogs are bitches and have periods, or as it is called in doggy world, go on heat. Either way they get PMT and they crave chocolate just like all the other women out there.

Some time ago, we found out the children secretly fed the dogs chocolate, which if you are a dog owner you will know that chocolate is very bad for dogs.
This has resulted in the dogs desperately trying to enter the dining room when the children are eating in the hope they will get chocolate.
The removing of the coco pops from the cupboard cause an inner turmoil in the dogs who are apparently thick as shit and still don’t realise I have found out about the secret feeding.
They think if they run faster, they will get through the barrier that separates them from the feast. Every morning I think they have understood they will not succeed.
We are both wrong.

The smalls descend, with other half in tow, who in contrast to me is fresh faced, and even smiling. Bastard.
The girls argue over seating before sitting in the same seat as they always do and I pour the milk over twin ones cereal to the usual cries of ‘mummy you’ve broken my mountain’ which is followed by giggles and then farm yard chomping.
Twin two has a thing.
She likes to hold her spoon up just above the bowl to catch and fan the milk over her breakfast. It makes her laugh like a small Satan whilst I try to stop the milk from spilling all over the table.
They now both trough the coco pops and other half brings me a coffee that, as ever is the colour of estuary mud. As usual, I look at him with contempt and he says ‘do you want more milk?’

I realise I am not dressed and stomp off upstairs (the cat is still meowing btw) to phoo in peace.
This of course doesn’t happen and I find myself back downstairs vaguely covered in a Matalan towelling tracksuit as modelled by regulars to the Jeremy Kyle show to find other half removing bowls from wailing smalls because they were making disgusting farty noises with the milk.
I would like to add that the other half has a broken nose.
I didn’t do it, although tempting, no, he did it as a child on a milk churn on the back of a trailer. How country is that? Anyway, as his nose is broken he cannot breathe through it and as such, eats with his mouth open. The smalls adore farm boy and copy much of his ways, one of which is eating like a farm animal. I reprimand everyone, which of course no one takes seriously, as I am dressed as an idiot.

The smalls go off to watch telly for twenty minutes and other half finishes his coffee by using it like mouthwash, which he also does every morning whilst I try not to cry/kill/slit my wrists.
He kisses me goodbye with all the freedom of a man who has, well freedom and is released into the open and peace of farm life whilst I remove bowls and winch at the now cold, muddy, and sugarless coffee.

I have now been awake for just gone an hour. I am dressed, all be it like the village idiot (a fat girl in a tracksuit is never pretty) I have almost regained control over the morning when I realise that we have yet to brush our teeth.
I call (shout, like a banshee) the girls upstairs to brush teeth and remove chocolate from mouths. Luckily, this is not too traumatic as the smalls really like brushing their teeth, they also love vegetables and fruit, but that’s another story, in fact, I am just showing off, or rather, trying to show that regardless of my lacking in order I am actually not a bad parent.

It is now time to leave. Somehow, the all important ten minutes I have available before leaving seems to be eaten by the time monster and we are late.
Jackets go on, always with the wrong arm presented first so it takes longer than it should.
We push back the dogs to get into the kitchen, which again takes time as for some reason twin two must have the gate open full to walk though , which means holding back dogs whilst holding shut backdoor from twin one and then skilfully, if not gracefully slamming a dogs head into the gate.

I then hold back smalls via hoods as I grab keys, turn off lights/appliances and scream at dogs to get into their beds, which they do, until door is open (full, for twin two) at which point they rush past small legs, who in turn rush out to retrieve dogs, who then rush at smalls, who rush at them, whilst I shout and flail my arms around like a tit.
I eventually get dogs back into kitchen and stop smalls from running into the path of a tractor (we live opposite a farm, not our farm, another, bigger farm that doesn’t seem to grow anything or have livestock, or even a farmer, just a tractor that appears at exactly the same time as the children run into the road)

The usual argument about seating ensues for another five minutes before they sit in the same car seats as they have done since they could walk.
I start the car and jolt to a halt. I forgot farm boy borrowed the car last night (he still thinks he is driving the tractor & leaves the car in gear), I swear (not completely) under my breath, take the car out of gear, and try again.

We drive through the village of the damned, passing people with faces like cats arses before arriving at crèche where I am greeted by cars parked by monkeys, stepford moms with Prozac eyes and gin breath and fathers full of their own self importance. Luckily, the staff are fab or I would have been sectioned before you read this.
I did try to fit in at first and used to wear makeup, but my eyeliner sharpener was stolen by the smalls and the Winehouse look scared the under two’s so I stop bothering, although I do still turn up on occasion smelling faintly of booze.

We do the running away/kissing ritual, twice of course, whilst twin two runs up and down outside, in front of all the other parents with her trousers up over her knees like she is going paddling in the sea making all the other parents think she is special needs, this belief is of course confirmed by my towelling attire.
Eventually I am asked to leave and the smalls begin their punishment of other people instead.
I drive back through the sea of cats arses to the relative safety and cave like darkness of home and quietly weep and phoo.