The “I’m up so where is my milk/breakfast?” situation.
Why do they think that shouting at your eye will do it? Then you have exactly 20.3 milliseconds to hope your nervous and muscular systems have come to enough to deflect the chubby finger headed towards your cornea.
Effective, undoubtedly, uses far fewer batteries than an alarm clock or phone alarm and is pretty much bang-on time EVEN ON WEEKENDS until BST and GMT start playing their games but really? Is this some kind of technique they learn in nursery?
Merely minutes before the defendant had asserted in the strongest tones that she had not, nor ever had been, tired and that to argue otherwise was a malicious attack from persons intent on slandering her good-to-average name and that she’d take on the WHOLE LOT of you, that she was NOT HAPPY and RARARARARRARARRARRRRRRAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!
The prosecution rests. But not like Exhibit A.
Not that Rowdy realised that it actually is Badger Week but she has retaken to the toy badger given to her by a Wootie*. The Wootie is particularly fond of brocky things.
Badgers tend only to get feisty if under attack. So given that Meghan here is squished under several pounds of eight-year-old at night, rammed against the wall, regularly drooled on and deafened by snores that could power multiple wind turbines it’s a wonder Rowdy isn’t covered in scratches. Make-believe or otherwise.
*A Wootie is what happens when an 18-month-old tries, and fails, to say ‘auntie’. And it sticks.
I don’t know the person who sets British Summer Time.
What I do know is that they don’t like their mum.
0605hrs is when this happened this morning.
Thoughtful? Yes. Punctual? Yes. Achieved maximum impact? Yes…but not in the way idealised by Clinton Cards. I don’t object to Mothering Sunday. In fact, seeing Rowdy & The Bobcat’s excited little faces (in extreme and unnecessary close-up) in presenting their school and preschool gifts respectively actually lends weight to the argument for keeping it. (Rowdy, in particular has come on leaps and bounds since arriving home with a brown paper bag containing a cereal bar with the sellotaped label ‘Breakfast in Bed’. Before sitting down and scoffing it right in front of me.)
The one day where media (in general) supports mums nationwide in having vast amounts of chocolate just because AND an extra bit of kip and BST scuppers it good and proper.
Add to this that I was then barricaded from the kitchen while their creativity was spontaneously retriggered into more gift preparation (what mum does not favour a glue&feather parrot mask? TWO parrot masks? Bring it on).
THREE HOURS they were in there. Their dad tried to lob tea and biscuits in my general direction to placate the beast (the PMT, carb-deficient, early-roused beast) but to no avail. The cry of “Just 5 more minutes, Mummy!” didn’t offer any consolation either as their grasp of the concept of time runs roughly parallel with their grasp of the concept of where cows magically turn into beef burgers.
Bedtime should be oddles of fun.