Youngest child may or may not have chicken pox. Symptoms: whinginess, bad temper, only eating one portion of food unlike his normal 3, a few spots on his left hand and arm that are sort of blistery, the odd spot elsewhere. For someone who is potentially ill, he seems to be full of beans. Quite frankly, I'd like it if he has chicken pox because then I can tick it off the list of childhood illnesses and I'd have a good reason for his vile temper. But he really doesn't seem very poxy.
This is annoying. We can't go play with other people in case he does have the pox (unless they're actively wanting to catch it themselves) but he really doesn't seem poorly enough just to sit around here all day. And they do seem quite intent on driving me mad this morning. This is largely because I am now reading yet another parenting book in a last ditch effort to manage the tantrums from son number 1. This book has so far told me what you're not supposed to do - which is everything apparently. You can't punish or give time outs. You can't reward or praise. I've yet to get to the bit where they tell you what you can do. (I do believe that I might get to the end and they'll just say: Sorry, but you're screwed.) But now I'm stuck in limbo, not really wanting to do anything to them but equally having to do something because they're systematically destroying the house and each other.
In accordance with the book, I'm trying to give them unconditional love, loving them for who they are and not what they do. This is a lot easier said than done. Especially when they smear syrup all over the furniture and decide that shredding a newspaper is a barrell of laughs. And it probably is. Except that they're not the ones having to pick up minute pieces of paper that keep appearing. But I am digging deep into my patience reserves and trying to ignore it. After all, it's just mess right?
My patience is also being tested by a deadly combination of moutains of clothes (about 1% of which are actually mine) which need washing and drying, but the tumble dryer seems to have decided to go on strike and refuses to dry anything, despite using up just about a year's worth of electricity and massively screwing up our carbon footprint, the washing line is still a dismal, wonky version of it's former self and even if I can manage to string a few things up without them touching the ground, the weather keeps changing its mind about whether it's sunny or rainy.
And once again we seem to have run out of food (except for pasta salad which quite frankly I cannot face and will be putting in the bin) which means a grocery shop. That might be a good outing with a poxy child as long as he doesn't actually touch another person. Then again, an online shop is infinitely more peaceful.
So that's my day. Looming large. It's been going since 5.30am and I'm ready to go to bed right now. But I shall soldier on. One very good line from the book I'm reading said something about how the breathing techniques you learn for labour really only come into their own many years later. I whole heartedly agree. And breathe in for four, and out for eight...