This morning, when I explained how tired I was to my young son, Master7 offered to help me out.
"I'll be the dad for the day and you be the kid. So you make the mess then I'll get pissed off and clean it up," he said. I quickly explained you can't say things like 'pissed off' when you're seven. He wasn't having any of that. "Well I can't say 'I'm pooed off'. That wouldn't make sense."
I knew it was going to be a rough day when I woke up at 4am to give the baby a bottle and couldn't get back to sleep. Further anecdotal evidence presented itself a couple of hours later when I went to make a coffee and had to refill the coffee jar. But instead of filling the jar I poured the whole lot into the plunger. I think my subconscious was making a point.
And sure enough, there was only moderate success today on the child minding front while Tracey was at work. I mean, no ambulances were called and they survived the day unscathed, but I confess I'm worried I may not.
Usually I manage to hide all the bits which go wrong: the baby sleeps for four hours, waking just before mum comes home, meaning she'll be up all night: the two year old pulls a chair over to the duchess and spends ten minutes riffling through Mum's makeup: the five year old wanders across the street to fetch their ball back. You know, that sort of thing.
What I'm fairly certain Tracey will spot when she arrives home are the scribblings on the side of the kids' lunch boxes, not least because Miss5 and Miss2 used a permanent marker.
The most disturbing thing about this incident isn't that it occurred a mere two meters from where I was sitting sipping tea and watching Youtube videos of QI, but that I'm pretty sure the permanent marker is kept above the stove.
I think there's a fair to middling chance Tracey is going to be a little pooed off when she gets home. And 'pooed off' makes perfect sense as opposed to 'pissed off' in this instance because I know I'm going to be in all sorts of shit.