Move over romance, pass the remote controlled robot

Five years ago today I was lying in a hospital, staring at a small wrinkled creature who despite being only a few hours old was already demonstrating drama queen tendancies. My first born. I was a mother. I was bewildered and very, very tired.

Son 1 had very, very nearly been born on Friday the 13th (which might explain some of his devil like tendancies from time to time) but just made it into Valentine's Day. We should have called him Romeo. We didn't.

It was an amazing Valentine's Day. I got a brand new baby, an enormous bunch of roses and a shiny eternity ring from my lovely husband to say congratulations on pushing a 7lb 9oz lump out of my fanoir without saying fuck too many times.

Since then, the romantic music and candlelit dinners of Valentine's past have been replaced with the noisy toys and family birthday meals of hotdogs with jam donuts. Even if we have managed to remember that it's Valentine's Day, it's usually a card and small pressie thrown at each other as we charge around trying to find batteries for a new birthday toy. By the time evening comes, we're so knackered, the thought of going out or doing anything remotely amorous gets shunted in favour of lolling in front of the TV with a bottle of wine.

This year has been less romantic than that.

Today my husband completely omitted to get me anything - not even a card. This is very unlike him. He is usually the excellent gift giver and I am rubbish. I however got him a card and tiny red hot water bottle with a heart on it (because he keeps whinging that he's the only person in our house without a hot water bottle and that he has to warm his cold feet on me). In the past if I'd had no card or gift for Valentine's day I would have pretended that I didn't care but secretly would. This year I genuinely don't care.

All I want is for the batteries of the sodding new Wall.E remote control robot to die, die, die because it is the loudest, most obnoxious toy I've ever had the misfortune of coming across.

And I want the children to go to bed. The whinging has been going non stop since 7am. Son 1, the birthday boy, isn't 100% well. So he didn't want to go to the zoo or science museum (which was our plan). He didn't really want to go get the fish for his new fish tank. All he wanted to do was play game after game of Zingo, another new present (which thankfully is quieter than the Wall.E toy). That and accompany me for a trip around Sainsburys. I spent a small fortune on crap so that my husband can feed the children all of next week. He's taken half term off so that I can work. The only way any of them will survive is if there are snacks and plenty of them.

While in Sainsburys, I attempted another vague stab at romance by buying fillet steak and bits to go with it, pink champagne and some Gu chocolate puddings so that we can have a romantic Valentine's meal. But I think my husband would have preferred a curry and a shag.

Anyway, time to go bathe small beasts before transforming into a sex goddess. I fear my brown Tesco tracky bottoms that have shrunk to half way up my calf, set off nicely against my blue socks and baggy jumper, might not set the right tone for the evening. Wish me luck.