Hump Day

Three days down, two to go. Now that the kids are all in bed, and Hump Day is officially over (let's not look over yon shoulder and see thy unwashed dishes just yet), I am beginning to think that I may survive this week without my hubby. Yes, yes, I know there are many, many more terrible things in the world than being a single parent for the week, but you must admit it sucks, right?

I suppose that in addition to being the only one available to fix any problem or break up a squabble or wipe a bottom or wipe a nose or cut up food or mop up Weetbix or get up to change a wet bed at 2am or settle a baby who just won't quit, is that there's no one here at the end of the day to laugh with and share the ridiculous little stories that you only find funny or cute if it's your own kids that you're talking about.

For example, Maisie loves to click her tongue (like making the noise of a horse's hooves), and she really only does it so that you will join in with her. The other day, she watched me have a drink of water, and when I finished I exhaled as you do after a really long drink (try it - you'll know what I mean when you involuntarily go "aah" after your long slug, but it sounds ridiculous trying to explain it!) So now, she'll sidle up to you, click her tongue three or four times, open her mouth wide and huff "Aah! Aah!", with her pearly little teeth showing and her tongue stuck out, and grin cheekily until you do it back to her. It's like the secret joke of my own personal little Kalahari bush person. I'm not quite sure how ridiculous I look doing this with her, but the good people of Fountain Gate very kindly turned away when we were there yesterday!

The girls and I met up with Aunty Calorine and baby Robot to have coffee a la Kath and Kim at Fountain Lakes, which was a welcome social distraction this week. It was nice just to trundle around Big Dub and Pumpkin Patch together, with our prams and all the other bits and bobs we managed to collect along the way. I must say, Phoebalina was exceptionally well-behaved, running and skipping alongside the pram with nary a whinge the whole day. She wore every necklace and bracelet she owns, as well as her tiara (or 'bitara', as she affectionately calls it). At one point, Phoebs was running parallel to Maisie's pram, clutching her tiara and laughing from her boots. People were smiling at her and saying things like, "Hello Princess!" and "Oh look! There's a princess at Fountain Gate!". She was so infectious that I started laughing out loud at her deliciousness, only to be greeted by the stony face of a woman who clearly did not find my beautiful daughter as amusing as I did!

I think Jack has found Daddy's absence more difficult that any of the rest of us. He has come out of his bedroom several times a night, seeking cuddles and asking if it's time for Daddy to come home yet. Tonight he was in floods of tears, simply because he missed his Dadda. He's been such a good helper to me this week that at times I have had to remind myself not to rely too heavily on a four year old. Each afternoon when we get home from school, he dutifully shakes the day's sand out of his shoes at the front door. I know when Daddy arrives home on Friday, there'll be a small hill of sand waiting for him on the doorstep! And, most likely, a little boy simply bursting with stories to tell his Daddy. Like how his class had a little party on Monday to celebrate 25 days of Prep, and he ate 25 cherry tomatoes. And how he played pirates with the boys the other day, and he was the boss pirate. How he wrote his whole name on his work, all by himself, even the 'K'.

It's taken me a while to type this post. I have been in to settle Maisie Mouse three times; succumbed and breastfed her once; located batteries and a screwdriver to replace the dying batteries in her beloved pink seahorse so that we might all listen to the dulcet tones of it's lullabies, and get some shut-eye tonight; dispensed drinks of water; wiped bottoms after last-minute toilet stops; and stroked foreheads calling out for Daddy in their sleep. I know that once this bubba is in her cot (as opposed to in my arms while I type one-fingered), I will wash the dishes, iron the school uniform, feed the pets, tidy the toys, and fall into bed exhausted. And tomorrow, it will be one day closer to my sweetie coming home. And then he can do all the housework and child care. Surely after this week I have earned some respite? Perhaps at the rehabilitation centre at the Sheraton? I hear they make wonderful medicines for over-tired mummies....