SO HELP ME GOD!

It's the Easter school holidays, again.  Oh God, really?  Then that means there are two weeks of constant whinging, whining, crying, screaming, tantrums and door slamming to look forward to - and that's just me!  Oh God, please just kill me now.

On top of two whole weeks of school holidays, Sarah has chickenpox and Bart has had the most amazingly explosive diarrhoea for days, leaving his arse raw and very sore.  Obviously he has no concept of REAL pain, you know, like the pain of trying to push a baby the size of a Brontasaurus from somewhere a Brontasaurus was never realistically going to emerge without it smarting a little.  Saur Us?  Pah!  Tell me about it.  If only I'd been willing to countenance a sore arse more often, my baby Brontasaurus wouldn't have been born in the first place!

Sarah has been comparatively lucky by only having two pox spots, but she has suffered terribly with a shocking temperature and stomach and headaches that won't be beaten with pain relief.  Like most children I'm sure, I'm now having to endure days upon days of having her clinging like a limpet to any available limb, whilst still trying to complete the most mundane of tasks.  Imagine having a pox-ridden child's arms wrapped around your middle, cuddling you from behind, whilst you're trying to clean foul smelling mustard arse gravy from a baby that would really rather you wouldn't!  Oh, the joy...

The other day was a complete nightmare: Bart was ravenous and Sarah wasn't.  I cooked a meal (!) and Bart couldn't get it down fast enough.  Sarah on the other hand was feeling nauseous and scarpered upstairs, believing she was to be sick, and insisting I go with her to hold her hair and try very hard not to throw up on the back of her neck.  Whilst upstairs with Sarah, morphing into a fetching shade of Kermit Green myself, Bart is unleashing hell downstairs because he's strapped into a highchair and unable to reach his food, which is just outside his reach.  So down I run, leaving Sarah perched over the toilet bowl promising not to be sick for 2 minutes, so that I can give Bart his dinner.  Upon pushing his plate towards him, Bart plunges both hands into his mashed potatoes and gravy and then releases them suddenly catapulting peas, carrots and sweetcorn everywhere.  You can imagine my delight.  I think I said something along the lines of "Oh heavens above my little darling, what on earth did you do that for?"  Now I was committed to feeding him his dinner (because he couldn't be trusted not to redecorate the kitchen in my absence), between manic strides upstairs to check on Sarah, who was heaving and retching away, when I told her quite clearly not to until I got back!  Kids!

Once Sarah's stomach had settled without actually being sick, and Bart had finished what was left of his meal from between his fingers, in sauntered Keith asking about my day.  Luckily I didn't have a heavy bottomed saucepan or a sharp implement in my hands at the time, but the steam from my ears and a look of reassurance that only I can give [that one's for you Olga], told him all that he needed to know, and he promptly put the kettle on.

Sarah's getting better every day and Bart's arse is less scarlett, but the two are a combustible mix when together for long periods of time.  They love each other dearly, but two weeks of their squabbling is going to send me around the bend.  Wish them luck...

This article has been sponsored by Hardys Shiraz Cabernet, on your table ... for not very long!

I'M GONNA RIP HIS HEAD OFF AND...

I'm gonna rip his head off and shit in his neck!  I'm referring to my dearly beloved Keith who was snoring AGAIN last night and I've just about had enough.  If it's not him making the earth move - for all the wrong reasons - it's Bart because he's thirsty or has his legs caught in the bars of his cot, or he's teething, or he's just being a pain in the arse like his father!

Seriously, I have not slept well or properly since January 2003, i.e.: weeks before I fell pregnant with Sarah - because once I was pregnant with Sarah, I ran a huge gamut of reasons not to sleep, which I reluctantly repeated once pregnant with Bart.  Evidently my pelvis is held together with Pritt Stick and duly fell apart under the considerable strain of carrying two not-inconsiderable babies (I had SPD).

Then Sarah had Croup - not asthma as the doctors insisted - and subjected me and only me (because Keith has nocturnal deafness!) to a very loud barking cough throughout winter.  Every winter.  Then we had neighbours who moved in and had the loudest most vigourous and frequent sex - EVER!  It just wasn't fair.  On the nights all of these things didn't happen, the moon was blue and a police helicopter hovered 3 inches above our roof all night - arghhh!

So, we're back to last night, and I was starting to list all the possible sites in which I could bury Keith's body, but decided against murdering him upstairs, as I'd have problems dragging him downstairs - what with the 13 loud bumps of his dead-weight skull crashing against every stair tread.  Hmmm, this would probably wake the children - and I clearly didn't want that!  So having decided against murdering him - for the moment at least, I won't rule it out completely - what could I do to shut him up?!  Rip his head off and shit in his neck!  True, it would dirty the sheets, but it would be worth it for a few short hours of slumber.

We've tried everything on the market and we've seen an Ears Nose & Throat specialist who told us, in his considered and educated opionion, that Keith has a "fat neck" - a medical term I believe - which is causing the snoring.  Tell me, did we pay for your medical training via our taxes Dumb-Arse?!  Nothing stops this man from snoring - nothing!  We've even had the neighbours - yes, those neighbours, banging on the wall telling him to shut the fuck up, which is a bit rich if you ask me.  I'd rather listen to Keith snoring than two hyenas disembowlling each other with garden implements - which must be what's going on in there!

So, if you know of any geniune, well tested and successful means of getting a man with a fat neck to stop snoring, please email forthwith and tell me about - otherwise I'm gonna need to borrow your shovel!

Oh! That can't be good...

It may come as some surprise that I don't do spicy - or anything that could be considered interesting and flavoursome. In the culinary sense you understand?! It was only when Sarah came home from nursery - nursery! - aged 2, telling me all about the delicious curry they'd given her for lunch, that I thought perhaps I should give it a go - besides, how bad could it be? We have been enjoying the blandest Korma's ever since; until, that is, I was unable to purchase our usual brand of Korma sauce last night in the supermarket - so I decided to be brave and buy a Tikka Masala instead.

Two hours have passed since Keith and I finished our meal, and there may be trouble ahead. The outlook is not good. You have to understand that my constitution demands yogurt be served with Worcestershire Sauce crisps, and Pickled Onion Monster Munch are for only the brave or insane in my book. My gastrointestinal system is a delicate and sensitive little darling, which can - if disrespected and provoked - turn into a lethal and unstoppable force of evil. And tonight is that night ladies and gentlemen. Evidently I have overstepped the mark - I have disrespected my guts. It has begun: houseplants are dead, newspapers are combusting, eggs are sizzling in the fridge - even the glass jar the sauce came in has melted. I foolishly bent over to empty the dishwasher, let out what I thought was an innocent seeper and the lounge door was gone! Come to think of it, I haven't since Keith since I came round; I wonder if he made it?

Tomorrow looks like it's going to be one of those days where I'll be glad we have the bath and basin on either side of the loo - I'm gonna need to take hold. I'm always complaining that I can't even have five minutes peace - not even on the loo. With the whole street evacuated, at least I'll get my five minutes peace!