Saturday mornings

Two of the three kids are in the playroom, playing.  They are meant to be tidying.  The third of the three kids is upstairs drying himself off after his shower.  Seriously, how can it take three towels to dry a small boy?  He's 12 and currently has three towels about his person. One on his hair ( seriously??), one around his hips and the other across his shoulders.  I just had a shower too and managed to get by with just one towel, not even a big one at that as the big ones seem to be draped around no. 1 son.

Yeah, so Saturday morning.  Two are playing, one is drying himself and the eldest male of the house is off on a walk.

How is it, someone please tell me, that I am always the one left sitting in the house on a Saturday morning staring at dishes to be loaded into a dishwasher that first has to be unloaded?  Piles of clothes to be washed and yet another four piles waiting to be put away.  The dog seems to have gone on a crapping spree in the back garden (Himself only sees the stuff on the paving) and the smell is horrendous.  Then there is the pile of Halloween stuff that No. 2 wants put up around the house.  Now!  Please???

Downstairs loo is a health hazard which, pardon the pun, is pissing me off because I only got down on my hands and knees and cleaned it on Wednesday.  

No. 2 made smoothies and it would appear I am cleaning up.  No. 1 made eggy bread for everyone and, again, it would appear I am going to clean up.  

Ugh.  Yup, everyone is doing their thing and it would appear that my thing is cleaning up after the shaggers.  

There will be a revolt. 

As they are all utterly revolting.

AAAAAAArghghalkdfhdisoyurhhhhhhggggghhhhhh

This week I have one cake and one cake alone.  It's funny how you forget that you hated cakes last week, when you had three and longed for a week with one .. . only, to find yourself bored with the one cake this week.  Isn't it?

Due to boredom, I've already made two Halloween witches for practice this week, myself and no. 2 decided to start practicing for Halloween.  I had bought the liquid latex, we had tissue, brushes, make up and watched numerous "create zombie slasher type wounds" on youtube so we were good to go.

Whilst putting it all together No. 3 started to get a bit panicky.  By the time I was finished he was a gibbering wreck.  No. 1 and No. 2 both thought it was 'Ace'.  I rang Karen and said, "sent you a photo, have a goo and tell me what you think",  cackle, she loved it as much as I did.  Whilst I was chatting to her I heard Himself come in the front door.  "Here" she says, "go and pretend you've hurt yourself" so I did.  I tucked the phone under my ear, grabbed a tea towel, gave the nod to No. 2 and ran into the hallway shouting "Darren, I've hurt my arm, I'm hurt"

Well, if I ever needed proof that he loves me I got it there and then.  Both the precious phone and earphones were flung on the floor, as was his bag, bowels and my bag of icing.  He kind've did a jig on the spot and kept going "Oh jesus, oh jesus" ..... . . ..  so I whispered to Karen "I'll ring you back" showed Himself it was fake and then watched him slowly slide down the wall whilst myself and No. 2 nearly wet ourselves laughing. 

We eventually stopped laughing about 15 minutes later which was roughly the time Himself was able to stand up.  By the time 30 minutes had passed he had more or less stopped shaking.  Today he just gives the odd nervous giggle every now and then.

Yup, Himself was lying against the wall, No. 2 was laughing with me whilst No. 3 was in tears (of terror) and No. 1 just kept playing Fifa.

Roll on Halloween and hey, cross your fingers I never burn myself.  He will never, ever believe me again.

Oscar and his Italian Chocolate Cookies (dammit, why can't they be called biscuits anymore?)

We came across this recipe in the Irish Times Magazine (28/9/13) and decided to make these instead of Brownies (yeah, mainly because I had no Cocoa Powder either, bad mammy).

To make these you will need:

250g dark chocolate

Another 175g dark chocolate chopped (I used milk chocolate as felt they would be rich enough)

50g butter at room temperature

125g granulated sugar

25g demerara sugar

2 eggs

2 tsp vanilla extract (I went to the cupboard and there was none to be found so didn't use it!)

60g flour

1 good tsp of baking powder 

Pinch of salt

Icing sugar to garnish

Then you:

• Preheat the oven to 180c/gas 4
• Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.
• Melt the 250g of dark chocolate in a bowl sitting over a pan of simmering water.
• Beat the butter and granulated sugar until light and fluffy and then add the demerara sugar, eggs and vanilla extract (if you have it).  Continue to beat.
• Pour in the melted chocolate and whisk until smooth.
• Fold in the flour, baking powder and salt.
• At this stage you want the mixture to be lukewarm (if, like me, your butter wasn't at room temperature when you decided to make these biscuits you'll find the chocolate has long since cooled to a lukewarm temp by the time you get your rock hard butter to the 'light and fluffy' stage) so that when you fold in the chopped chocolate it won't melt.
• Spoon dessertspoon sized blobs on to the trays, leaving a bit of a gap in between.
• Bake for 10 - 12 minutes (took 12 in our oven).
• They will be quite soft but will harden slightly as they cool and will remain gooey in the centre.
• Dust with icing sugar when cold.
• Make a cup of tea, turn back on trashed kitchen and try not to choke as you wolf down these gorgeous biscuits.

Next time we make these I'm going to use orange in them as I imagine it will be lovely.  Might also try and remember to buy vanilla extract next time Himself is at the supermarket too.

I cried, a little

Have you seen Man of Steel? I have, just back in fact.  I loved every minute of it.  You could actually feel the air pressure in the cinema drop the first time  you see Clarke (Henry Cavill) doing his thing and saving some riggers on a doomed oil rig.  Holy moly, the man is divine.  Haha, funny that I just typed that as there are Messianic nods of the head all over the movie.  Anyway, the man is ripped, gorgeous and I reckon the majority of women sucking in their breath with longing were the origin of that pressure drop.  The guy beside me laughed when I, too, inhaled and 'Wow-ed!' on the out breath.

What made me cry, but only a little, was the image of a young Clarke running around the garden, dog jumping up on him and his pretend, towel, cape flapping behind him.  He reminded me of Oscar.  Oscar lepping around the garden cape flying, or hips (depending on whether he is a hobbit or Michael Jackson) going like the clappers.

Can't take Oz and Arthur to see the movie as they'll shit themselves but wow, I love little boys who wear capes and dance around the garden with their dogs.

I don't have Joker. Yet!

No.

No. 3 a.k.a. Arthur walked in on me and Himself talking the other morning.  It was 7.30am and I had just woken up.  Was so freshly woken up that I was having a hard time working out what was real and what was er, not.

I turned to Darren and said 'Is Arthur ours?  Did we foster him?  I have a feeling his parents want him back!!?"  Needless to say, Arthur was standing in the doorway with his mouth hanging going "WHAT???"  "I'M ADOPTED????"  

Jaysus, of course he's not adopted.  At 7.30am the other morning though I wasn't so sure.  Poor chap. 

So, Arthur, YOU.  ARE.  NOT.  ADOPTED!  Okay?!

When he was coming out of school his teacher pulled me aside and said "Arthur's been asking me about adoption today and if he is adopted".  Sigh.  I am so fucked.  He will need years of counselling after this.  Especially as the other two are always telling him he's a mistake.  Sorry, accident.  I have charming children. He was a bit of a surprise I'll admit but what a lovely one he turned out to be.  Only one out of the three of them to eat and sleep and not whhhhhhhhiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnne all the time.  

Oh, to top off worrying Arthur that morning I, in a big rush, chucked a big basin of water over the windscreen to melt the ice .   .. . only to have the bastarding wipers activate and swoooosh the water right back at me.  A whole two litres of it.  The kids were wetting themselves laughing in the car.  I did that girlie squeal thing that one does when suddenly drenched with cold water on a day averaging a temperature of 1.5C and shivered.  Worth it, I think, for the kids reaction.  Not good for the hair though.  

Later on. . . when things had quietened down and dinner was being eaten the middle chap asked  'What's a wet dream?"  Ah jesus, no.  Please, no.  Not yet.  Darren said he'd tell him when he was a bit older but Oz kept looking at me and saying 'Mam?' because he knows I babble when I'm freaking out.  So, he kept saying 'Mam??' and I ended up saying:

"it'swhenyourwillyleaksabitanditkind'vefeelsniceiIthinkandyou'llbeasleepanddon'tworryaboutitloveasitwon'thappenforagesyet..................................sob"  

First beer of the week was well and truly in order, I think you'll agree.

He got no soul

Sitting down at dinner last night we had the following conversation:

Arthur:  You did!  You know you did!!!

Oscar:  Yeah, but Dad said it first.

Darren: What did I say?

Arthur:  It wasn't Dad it was you Oscar.

Me:  Jesus!! What did you say?

Arthur: " . . .He said Ginger's have no souls!"

Cue the rest of us falling into our dinners laughing.  Red heads have no souls?!  Cackle.

Ah here!!

As no. 2 would say.  I'm lying in bed, have just discovered Spotify so listening to one of my favourite bands, The Stunning , and totally chilled.  I should be getting up to take the kids to see some movie I promised them but . . . I'm warm and it's windy out and . . . . It's like this.  My room is  a tip.  My side of it anyway.  I've turned it into some sort of Den for myself.  A badger would be ashamed though, I bet she wouldn't allow her space to get this trashed.  I am, in fact, a filthy animal.  You can't see the worst of it, that's at the bottom of the bed.  6 pairs of knickers just lying on the floor in the shape of the number 8.  My er, excuse?   Well, it's been mental here so basically I get up, drop knickers, get clean pair and stagger downstairs.  At night I stagger upstairs and fall into bed only to get up the following morning and repeat.  I'm a hound.  Actually, I'm such a hound the hound (Billy)won't even come into the room anymore.  There are three glasses with water in them  beside my bed and all the paper I ripped off my birthday presents is on the floor beside me.  I bought an orchid the other day for myself in the hope that I would get it upstairs ans put it on the bedside table and that would cause me to desire simplicity and niceness.  It hasn't.  The orchid is still at the front door and there are still 4 socks on the floor.  Hmmm, sure what else would you be doing on the day before Christmas Eve other than lying on your back, typing and 'thinking' about cleaning your room.  Actually  I'm not even thinking about cleaning the room,  I'm thinking 'must get up', 'must get up and go to the cinema', 'must get up and go to the cinema and then go to Lidl and see if they have any lobster tails left',  basically I'm thinking of anything other than clean your room you filthy animal!

Are you always honest?

"telling the truth isn’t always good,but lying isn’t always bad.if telling the truth make someone feels bad,lying can be good.good things can come from lying,bad things from the truth. although sometimes telling part of the truth is the same thing as telling a lie"

Anna Foster - Chasing Liberty

No. 2 tries hard not to be sometimes but you can see it eating him up, e.g. "Do these trousers suit me?"  Him:  "Yes . . . . do you like them?.... no, not really.  Sorry".

There are a few people in the world I cannot lie to.  Most people I can lie to without so much as blinking and it's really starting to bother me that there are those in my life whom I have to be completely honest with.  I mean, the lies I tell are little ones.  Can't be doing with the big ones, too hard to keep straight.  But the little ones are alright, aren't they??

One of my, consciences (for want of a better word), believes that any kind of lying is bad no matter how big or small the lie.  I disagree.

It's not so much lying, I think, as getting yourself out of a poxy situation.  Like, when I accidentally walked off with someones keys.  God, was mortified.  More mortified when, having told her all the places she should look(whilst a county away), I put my hand into my bag and . .  found her keys!!  You know, I even considered binning the bloody things rather than ring and say I have them?!?!  She told me if I had've binned them I would have eventually told her and she would be furious with me.  Thing is, if I had've binned them I wouldn't have told her because  it would have gone from 'lie' to 'secret'.  

Bollix anyway,

What happened was, she rang, I said no, don't have them and continued merrily on my way.  On way to collecting my car an hour later I put my hand into my bag and pulled our her keys.  Puce!!!

Panicked (why I don't know, I mean, what did I do in a past life that I am so afraid of saying 'hey, found your keys'??) and decided that when I got home, and if I convinced myself not to bin them, I would ring her and say 'found your keys'.  Which is exactly I did.  She was delighted to have her keys back and thrilled they were in my house and safe.  Also thrilled as it meant she didn't have to get every lock in the house changed.

So, why oh bloody why, did I have to tell her I knew I had them an hour before I told her I had them??  What was to be gained?  It's not the worse thing I've ever done . . . really?!  

She was thrilled to have her keys back, why the fuck did I have to go 'well, you know how I found your keys when I got home . . . . ?" two nights later? 

Yup, this woman is one of a handful of people who can read me so well I'm afraid to lie.  There's another one, a cake maker, who made a model and I said "love it" and, in my head went "fuck, it's  got wonky feet".  Is that lying?  Or being nice?  Either way, when she mentioned the cack feet herself I said/shouted "yes, yes, it's got brutal feet, what were you thinking???" 

Whilst telling the above two that I don't lie, much, I answered my phone with a "sorry, can't talk, in school collecting sick kid at the moment" whilst they just looked at each other and nodded.  Nodded in that way that friends do when you prove they are right.  Bastards.

I remember hearing of a man, either in the UK or States, who lived his life for 3 months without lying.  He was miserable.  Apparently it's amazing how many leeeetle lies we tell.  "Yeah, of course I don't mind not having sugar in my tea" - what's the point of tea without sugar??  "Your hair looks fab, don't worry" - Cackle,  you know who you are.  Er, what else?  "Love the new tattoo" - of course you hate it but they just scarred their bodies FOR LIFE with it.  "What mess?" - yeah, your house is a tip and I'm afraid to sit down. All of the above are little things that we/I lie over.  

I love the people with no sugar/crap hair/bad tattoos and slutty houses, they're my friends.  I bet they lie to me all the time.

Two funny conversations

A friend of mine is doing her first Craft Market at the moment and I volunteered myself and no. 2 to help out.  Okay, so I volunteered when I was on a high from giggling all night through with her and wasn't feeling like death (I'm miserable when I have a cough/cold/yukness but a promise is a promise.

While in the car going over to her house no. 2 asked about 'how canaries stop singing when they smell gas'.  I replied '???' and the conversation went as follows:

Him: You know the way they stop singing.  When there is a gas leak . . . . you know, in mines?'

Me:  'Oooh, you're talking about how miners used to bring canaries into the tunnels with them in the olden days.'

Him: 'Sigh, yes.'

Me.  'Well, it wasn't so much that they 'stopped singing' more a case of they dropped dead.  They are such tiny birds that they feel the effects of gas leaks before humans and er, they die'.

Him.  'Right, so why didn't we die in England last year?'

Me.  Again!! '?????'

Him. 'Remember, in Lily's house . .. we came down in the morning and the canary was dead.  So, why didn't we die?'

Me. Cackling away quietly to myself, can you cackle quietly?  Anyway, 'The canary died of old age!  Muppet'.

Then:

"Yeah, so there's this boy in my class.  You know him, Devin, yeah?  Well he's in hospital having his measles taken out".  "What?  Are you sure that's right?  I don't think you can take measles out, do you mean tonsils?

"No, it's er, you know that thing you have from when we lived in the stone age and ate grass and now we don't need it any more ......?'"  "Ahh, appendix!  He had his appendix out."

I do love that boy. Even if he makes me nearly crash the car every now and then from yapping at me and telling me funny stuff and shouting at me to look out the window.

I was reminded by Ger (my partner in crime last weekend at the cake show) that he didn't lick it off the ground.  Apparently, I drove her mad by yapping the whole way through Wales and shouting out things like 'Ooooh, look!!!  It's a helicopter and it's going under a rainbow!!!!!  LOOOOOOK!!!"

Yup, he's my boy x

No. 2

"Mam, this morning I woke up."

That was it.  The entire conversation in one go.  He really makes me smile.  I'm sure there was more to it but that's all I got.  He got distracted by a picture in a Smyth's catalogue.  It's all about Lego Batman now.  

This is why I don't like caterpillars either

I follow a face book page called I fucking Love Science (they don't care if you're offended, great attitude but er, sometimes I am.  Especially if I'm showing the lads something).  It's a brilliant site and I was allowed into the IFLS group/thing.  I don't understand much of what anyone is talking about but love the discussions. 

They posted this picture today and . . shudder.  Caterpillars can be scarier than spiders.  Butterflies are even scarier than caterpillars.  

I once used no. 2, in his baby sling on my chest, to protect me when we went to the Butterfly Farm in Swords.  Jesus, some of those feckers were bigger than no. 1's head.  He was three at the time.  Ugh.

Yesterday

I was having a bad day.  Hence the 'I love my rotten ungrateful children' remark.  But they were doing my bloody head in.  I'd woken up bright and early and raring to go (after a night out with the school mammies and several glasses of wine) and Himself was good to go so we said 'Right, let's go somewhere lovely because it's er, lovely out'.  

Half nine I got up at.  HALF NINE!!!  The bastards (all four of them) didn't come down til 11, ELEVEN, a.m.  By which time I am positively fuming and screeching about how I'm trying to do something nice with them and WHY WON'T YOU ALL (in my head: FUCKING) MOVE??? So, we set off to have a lovely day with two of us in tears.  Me and no. 1.  

I'd received a call from the hospital on Friday saying 'we'd like to you see you in a week' which is a whole month earlier than they were meant to be seeing me.  So I immediatley went into 'oh jesus, I'm actually dying' mode.  So, instead of being all 'Terms of Endearment' and loving to my family I screeched at them that they were a hopeless fecking bunch of feckers.  Feckers who were ungrateful to boot.  

Feck.

Anyway, I'm sure I'm perfectly perfect and fine but I would like to know for definite.  May ring hospital tomorrow to ask if they had a cancellation or whether I'm er, in trouble.  Even though I'm sure I'm not.  

Feck.

Right, so we went to Howth.  Not the zoo as planned as we had Billy with us and you can't take dogs into the zoo because they might panic the monkeys.  Personally I'd like to see Billy panicked by one of the big tigers.  That would put the yappy little shit into his place.  But I digress.  Again.  

We went to Howth and took one of the high paths to walk on as we were afraid the Head would be so mushy and slippery after the rain we might fall into the sea.  Plus, the cliff walk is over 10km and the last time we did it no. 3 cried for 7 of those 10km.  It was lovely, as planned, and wetter than we'd thought it would be.  

Billy has a fear of his reflection.  Seriously!!  The dog goes bloody mental if he sees another dog staring up at him from a puddle.  I always wonder if it's ever crossed his mind why/how the dog in the puddle, who is also going ape shit mental, is doing it so quietly??

Somehow we ended up nearly back in the village and had to head back up the summit on the road.  God but there are some beautiful houses there.  Houses I want to own.  Like, REALLY, want to own.

One day.

Having crawled back up to the top of Howth Head we abandoned Himself to go the last 500m, we sat on someone's garden wall,  and collect the car so we could drive back down to the village to get chips.  

Poor no. 3.  All he wanted was a battered sausage from Beshoffs. Nothing more, nothing less.  Just one battered sausage.  He sat down on the wall to eat it and . .  it rolled out of the box and into the grass.  We recited the three second rule* and no. 1 whipped it up and gave back it no. 3.  

But then the fecking thing fell off the wall again!  Only this time it went onto the path, er, slightly longer  than 3 seconds but, again, it was whipped up and put into the box whereupon no. 3 picked up the box and made to hurl it at Himself's head in temper.  Himself, jaysus, picked off the bits of gravel and said ". . . 5 second rule????  Go on no. 3, it's alright".  

He stopped crying and wiped his eyes and nose and started eating it only to have Billy lep (like 'leap' only er, like Dubs say it)up and grab the sausage from the other end and gobble it down.  Jesus, no. 3 nearly lost his reason (I took photos of course) and myself and Himself nearly peed ourselves laughing.  No. 1 took him back to Beshoffs where they bought one more sausage.  In hindsight I'm relieved Billy ate the sausage as while no. 3 was getting a new one several dogs pissed on that exact spot where he'd dropped it the second time.  No 5 second rule (1 second rule even) is going to negate that germ-y mess.  

  

Are there any songs about the perfect Autumn day?

'Cos there should be as me and nos. 2 and 3 (and Billy the Dog) had a lovely day in the Phoenix Park today.  Lovely until no. 3 got soaked that is.  They were rowing in the pond, to get to America, when disaster struck.  The disaster answers to the name of Billy and he hates his reflection and got a bit rowdy and knocked no.3 over.  Over and in. 

We found big sticks knocking conkers out of trees and even BIGGER sticks when the big sticks didn't work.  There is a reason they didn't work, it's too early for conkers.  The trees are hanging onto them for dear life.  

Wandered across a jazz quintet in the grounds of Farmleigh House and just sat and mellowed and picked up a cd to mellow along to on the way home.  There was no point ruining that feel good buzz by putting the radio on and hearing the news.

We had fresh apple juice, prawns and hotdogs for lunch.  Made friends with a nice lady and all refused to sit next to Billy in the car on the way home because, this time, he rolled in fox shit.

Fecking dog.  Still, the weather was perfect, the music and food lovely and the company?  Well, the company was absolutely perfect.  

.

Worry

I told someone about this last night and, up until that point, I was quite fine with it all.  Now though, I'm not.  There is a shadow on my head, in my head?  Therefore Friday two weeks, or Friday fortnight, I'm going into hospital for a couple of hours of tests including an MRI.  

First thing that is scaring the pants of me is . . . the MRI.  I fucking hate tunnels.  Going through the port tunnel in Dublin is liable to kill me as I have to hold my breath until I get to the other side.  So to be stuck in a 'made to measure' tunnel doesn't fill me with the joys of spring.  Hmmm, also, it's a tight space.  What if my arse doesn't fit.  How embarrassing would that be?  Eh?

The second thing that is worrying me is, what if there is something causing that shadow.  And I'm not talking about a bunny making handshapes with a torch.  What if something is wrong?  I'm too young to be unwell.  I'm too young to be realllllly unwell.  

I grumble, like most others, about my life and how it could be better but I love it.  Warts (and snoring dog) and all.

I thought I was doing great.  Having not thought about this since the day the doctors 'hmmmmed' over my x-rays and various other bits and pieces of tests, a couple of months back but now???  Now I am a jittery bag of nerves.  Which means I am verging on being very unfuckingpleasnat with someone I know.  

I know all problems are relative.  Jesus, in the last 24 hours I;ve learnt of something that made me swell with admiration for a friend while having my heart break for her at the same time.  But some people are Just Never Fucking Happy.

Nothing is enough.

Nothing will never be enough.

I don't give a toss if they have a great heart anymore and if 'there's a lovely person in there'.  Pah.  Why should I have to waste my energies sifting through someone else's bullshit to find the nice person?  I do, however, like this person but I am tired of hearing of all their imagined slights.  So tired.  Feck, maybe the friend isn't making me tired it's, dum, dum, dum, 'THE SHADOW'.  Fuck, hope it's the friend.

My ma died when she was 54 exactly.  I will be exactly 40 soon.  I am not ready to be sick.  I am not ready to have something wrong with my favourite part of my body - my brain.   Unlike the rest of me, it's size remains constant and I love it for that.

Bollocks.  See?  Now I'm crying.  I'm crying because I'm afraid.  Not because of anything I know, more what I don't know.  I know people who are going through very heavy times right now.  Up to their oxters in heavy times and they are still smiling and keeping it together.  My shadow is turning me into a jittery, nervous wreck.   

The only shadows I like are those you get when you're walking in the sunshine.  Not the ones that lurk in the darkness, under the beds etc.  Especially not the one that is lurking in my fricking head.

Bastard shadow. 

p.s. Not telling any cakers I'm afraid of shadows, the bastards will start sending them to me in the post lol.

C'mon in, the water is lovely

Actually, it took a while to get over to the chill but it was eventually lovely.  Myself, two of mine and the borrowed boy (along with the sister and the menace) all went to Portmarnock Beach today and it was bliss.  I decided before we left for the beach that this time I WAS bringing my togs (normally I moan that I don't have them and 'doesn't the sea look lovely?') and I was getting into the sea.  

Am so glad I did.  The Borrowed Boy however turned a rather dazzling shade of blue after 15 minutes and had to be wrapped up in a towel and then another towel and then another.  

The niece (denise?) soaked up a substantial amount of the sea with her nappy and shrieked when you looked crooked at her.  

No. 2 topped up his tan and no. 3 decided he's starting a shell collection.  He's also going o make a necklace for someone really, really, especially special.  

I hope it's me.

Tooth fairy needs a kick up her bum

I mean, I know she does her best but does s/he not understand how many kids out there are relying on her to be on time and to actually show up with the money?

Last Saturday no. 3 woke up expecting to find at least two euro under his pillow in exchange for the latest tooth but there was nothing there.  Apparently she had forgotten.  She must have been knackered to forget such an important thing.  Or maybe she went out to dinner with some friends and got home so late the tooth completely slipped her mind?  Or maybe, and I think this is the one, she assumed the second fairy in command would remember, after all he was the one spending most of the time in that, er, area that night.

Regardless of excuses, the fairy never showed.  

Today, however, no. 3 got the above note.  Wrapped tightly around a fiver. I'm guessing it's all the fairy had on her.  

No. 2 had lost a tooth yesterday and put in the little tooth fairy cup we have and lo and behold he got two quid.  Imagine his surprise, and mine, when he found another two quid under his pillow when he was making his bed this morning.  

Turns out the fairy was so frantic that she had accidentally stuffed no. 3's tooth money under the wrong pillow a couple of days back.

Silly fairy.

Sunshine and Bubbles

I'm never sure how much I remember of being a kid is actual memories or photo images that I've seen.  Either way if the boys don't remember this day they'll always have these.  

   

Yup, that's a photo of the bubble 'popping' on no. 3's cheek.

The hunt was a success

No. 3 nearly killed himself going up and down the stairs and no. 1 disagreed strongly with my interpretation of a 'foot.  Still, and all, they got their eggs and all were happy.

My Thriller Kid

My no. 2 really makes me smile at times.  He's going to be great one day.