And that is very much shit of the literal variety. Put your lunches down now ...
Before we get onto the shit, a couple of bits and pieces to bring you up to speed with. The most important news is that after a fraught few weeks of tenseness, a 24 hour period where the only thing which prevented me mainlining gin was the fact that such a thing is generally frowned upon whilst you're sat carrying out gainful employment, and a 100% sleepless night where I found myself caught in an endless cycle of thrashing about the bed/checking my mobile phone/clearing up Beth's vomit (with astute timing, she'd chosen that particular night to pick up a stomach bug) ...
... Mr Jamie got into his first choice of school. Huzzah.
(Actually, who am I kidding. 'His' first choice of school is absolute nonsense. 'Our' first choice of school is also something of a misnomer, given I worked less on a basis of consulting with Neil, and more on a basis of 'I AM DAMN WELL TELLING YOU' with Neil. (Yes, I realise, I might not be the one who works in education ...) 'MY' first choice of school is absolutely where it's at.)
And what a relief it was. For me, who collapsed onto the floor in hysterical relief when the email finally came through at 0627 (the collapse was in part to do with the missed pool of Beth's vomit which I'd suddenly managed to make contact with), as opposed to Mr Jamie, who just sat in bed sagely shaking his head at his histrionic, semi supine mother. The only thing he's bothered about is the fact it has a blue school uniform. Or, to be more precise, a blue school unicorn. "Daddy, I am going to go to a school and I get to have a blue school unicorn with a red tie!" Part of me wants to correct his misconceptions before September ... a far bigger part is revelling in them.
In other news: I have a Real Life Running Injury. Oh yes. This clearly means I am a Proper Athlete, which is somewhat ironic given that since said Running Injury I've been barely able to walk up the stairs, let alone coordinate my body sufficiently to put one foot in front of the other at pace. It seems to be lingering a bit ... turns out the high heels aren't helping. Not that that's enough to get me into flats. Good grief, have you seen the size of my arse?
And finally: to the shit. Sensitive readers ... what the hell are you still doing here? Have you read the rest of this blog?
Beth generously decided, post Wednesday night vomiting, that she'd share her illness with her vomit-weary mother. There are other things I'd rather she'd decided to bestow on me, if I'm honest. Alas, it didn't seem I was going to get much choice in the matter, and hence now finding myself on day two of having-the-life-sucked-out-of-you-via-your-oesophagus-and-your-anus.
Grim grimmity grim.
Ensuite bathrooms have never seemed such a great invention, although after spending around 80% of the night in mine it's lost some of its appeal. Morning dawned cold and grey and lying, completely drained, in a heap on the bed (my daughter attached to my face - just what one needs to discourage vomiting), I pondered a dilemma.
"Neil has gone to work. I have two small children I have to get to nursery. My bottom is giving me a maximum of 97 seconds before it requires situating back on a poo-friendly receptacle. How in the WORLD am I going to manage this one?"
I am not a straight A student for nothing.
Half an hour later, Mr Jamie, Beth and I left the house. Gingerly, I loaded them into the car and lowered myself into my seat. Which, on my poor, battle scarred bottom, felt strangely cushioned ...
You see, some time ago, I'd read on more than one blog some tales of women allegedly weeing into their children's nappies whilst stuck on long car journeys. (This may have been more than an allegation and actual fact ... it just seemed odd that there was such a spate of said nappy-weeing at the time.) Regardless, it had stuck in my mind, and now ... well. This was perfect. Joyously, I had grabbed one of Beth's Pampers 4+ Baby Dry and shoved it down my pants, finally able, for the first time in 24 hours, to Fart Without Fear. Am a bloody genius.
And no, of course I'm not going to tell you whether it was called into action. That would be entirely inappropriate. All I'll say is that the journey to nursery is 7 minutes. Each way. 14 minutes in total. Plus a good 5 minutes to herd children into nursery and back gingerly back out again. At least a 20 minute exodus.
Weeing in children's nappies is so 2011.