Park rules

It's midnight, but I can't sleep because I'm contemplating stealing a scooter from the playground. It used to be that I couldn't sleep simply because my children had made a secret pact that the sun should never set on the Morozzo family. I can now happily say that we've come a monstrously long way since my last blog post and I'm now the mother to a three year old and an 18 month old who sometimes both (both!) sleep right through the night. Of course, I'm not used to being able to actually sleep at night so there's nothing left for me to do in the wee small hours but browse vacuum cleaners online and figure out the best moment to nab that scooter.

I came home from a blissful two months in the UK this summer to a broken hoover, which is, on the plus side, proof that G did actually attempt to clean the floor at least once in my absence. The scooter situation is a bit more complicated. Let's just say that someone nabbed Isabel's fab yellow scooter and left their own crap, broken and generally forlorn-looking yellow scooter for us take home. I have identified the thief with the cunning use of those eyes in the back of my head (they must put them in at the hospital while you're still a bit zoned out from giving birth). I've also noticed that the thief's mother doesn't even have eyes in her - well - eyes, as she's only scraped off one of Isabel's name labels, before hastily scribbling her own child's name on the handle bars. I should have grabbed it, but Jack suddenly set off on a high speed trundle to the gate and I missed my chance. I haven't been this mad about something since I caught Isabel dragging a gurgling newborn Jack by his legs into the bathroom - to do what I dread to think.

The scooter theft just represents a horrible lack of respect for park rules. If someone accidentally takes our €3 Disney princess ball home, I'll shrug my shoulders and be all peace and love about it*. However, take my €75 scooter, positively laden with a year and a half of sentimental value (not to mention name labels) and I'm swapping my Birkenstocks for steel toe capped boots.

Anyway, here's hoping that all the other mad mums/frazzled mums/going-a-bit-loopy mums/haven't-washed-up -the-dinner-things-yet mums out there get some sleep tonight eventually. Except the scooter thief mum, of course.

*although, to be honest, we wouldn't mind it back sometime. Thank you.

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Bathtime

Isabel's drinking bath water from a little pink plastic watering can, Jack's ignoring all the fun bath toys and is chewing on a ratty old shampoo bottle and I've just realised that I've left the pyjamas in the bedroom.

Me: 'Oh, sugar ..'
Isabel: 'Oh, fuck it.'
Me: (Quick, what would Super Nanny do? Decide to ignore it, just like the bath water drinking - despite the fact that at least one of them has more than likely done a pee in the bath)
Isabel: Mummy, fuck it! Fuck it!' (laughing)
Me: (distract, distract, distract) 'Izzy can you be a big girl and wash your tummy?'
Isabel: 'Mummy?'
Me: 'Yes Izzy?'
Isabel: 'I got willy.' (points downstairs)
Me: (Quick, what would Super Nanny do? Call Social Services probably. Forget Super Nanny.) 'Have you? I don't think so sweetheart. You're a girl, not a boy.'
Isabel: 'Yes, got willy,' (quite determined now) 'inside. I got willy inside.' (more laughing)

Oh Lord.

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