Bull Shit

I have just got home from dropping the children at karate.  Jason is with them.  It is his first lesson.  I am agog to find out if it will be his last.  I will keep you posted.

I am exhausted today. Properly exhausted.  I got home from the school run this afternoon and quite literally could not keep my eyes open.  Luckily for me, and my poor, neglected children, I was at my mum’s.  She looked after them while I fell asleep on the sofa.  I just went out like a light.

My blood tests come back next week.  I am hoping for mild anaemia at best.  It would explain a lot.

In better news, my son continues to make me laugh a great deal with his naughtiness.

Several toilet related incidents for you:

We are still struggling with him over him wiping his own bottom.  He really feels that it is an infringement of his civil liberties to be expected to wipe his own arse.  Last weekend he was bellowing at Jason to come and wipe his bottom.  Jason shouted:

‘I thought you were supposed to be wiping your own bottom these days?’

To which he shouted back:

‘Dada! It is SUNDAY you know.  I can’t do it then.’

Clearly Sunday is a day of rest in every respect.

Yesterday we were at granny’s house again.  We practically live there at the moment. Despite this, my house in Broughton Astley still manages to become filthy. How does this work?

Anyway, I digress.

There we were, ready to embark on another day, when Oscar called me from the depths of the bathroom.

I reminded him he had to wipe it himself. Not once (I have been caught out like this before) or twice, but many times until it was clean.

After twenty minutes of him groaning and faffing, and singing (I do not know), he blithely announced he was done.

I went to inspect the damage.  He smiled joyously, with his pants round his ankles, and half a ton of toilet roll in the pan.  He said:

‘My bottom is clean, and I’ve only managed to get pooh on my elbow mama!’

Good oh!

Today we went out for lunch with Uncle Robber.  Uncle Robber is off to Las Vegas on his jollies this weekend, and we accompanied him to a farewell luncheon at a rather nice pub called The White Horse in Leire.

Oscar needed the toilet, and as I was escorting him there he said:

‘Mama? When will I be old enough to be allowed to go to the toilet on my own?’

I refrained from saying:

‘When you don’t wipe pooh on your elbow.’

and instead made vague remarks about perhaps being as old as Tallulah, but that we would monitor the situation.

He nodded and said:

‘I want to know, because the first time Tallulah went to the toilet on her own she saw an Indian bull in the toilet with her, and I’d really like to see one of those too.’

I said:

‘Are you sure it was an Indian Bull?’

To which he replied:

‘Not really, but it was something like that.’

I am truly intrigued.