old children

Well, I survived Thursday's excitements. I guess I was having a surge of vain-glorious-ness as I imagined people actually reading the shit I put up on the inter-web and then taking it to the next level of egotism and me-love.
So, not wanting to let my people down (I have officially got ONE whole follower, and despite knowing who he is, I pretend that its not just ONE and that maybe in google-analytics-language ONE actually means ONE batch of, say, 100,000. So if I had, like 4 "followers" what that really meant was 400,000 followers... oh god I'm desperately pathetic. A bit like the new girl in the playground giving everyone sweets to make people like her...Although I'm sitting at my desk now eating giant Cadbury's chocolate buttons which are so good but I'm not actually sharing them with anyone, so no new friends I guess) I batted off the FBI and the gay Nazi officers and here I am for another round of Its My Life.
Saturday saw the graduation of Liz turning transferring from terrible twos to the fearsome three's. I recall vividly that when Mol turned three I experienced some of the most incomprehensible tantrums - lying on the floor howling over not being allowed another yoghurt or donut or spliff, whatever, and I remember finding black graffiti on her freshly painted walls "Am I bovvered?" (I had it translated by a monkey trainer - he said it looked just like the scrawls they produce just before they're given type writers to see how long it takes to type up a novel) and a lot of "You're not my friend" conversations which get a bit complicated when you say "well you're not my friend either" in friendly retaliation and then they burst into tears because what they actually think you mean is that they're poo's and that you don't love them any more. And then there's a lot of back-peddalling but by then the hole is too deep and the full rage is released once more and the windows start to rattle. So that is where we're at with Liz. Window rattling. I think the cashiers in Sainsbury's a few miles away recognise the sound waves as we approach in the car and suddenly all take their fag breaks at the same time - it can be the only explanation for the lack of people in the shop when get there.
But we had a party. She got her pig cake that she'd decided I had to make her (over 6 months ago, its been a long time coming). And mum and dad didn't kill the wasps in the giant wasps nest that had been the source of pain for at least 4 people when they had the fete in their garden a few weeks ago (if interested see 18/7 entry, bunting bunting) so we spent most of the day panicking that one of the kids had swallowed a stinger and was about to go into shock. And we had a treasure hunt. And a really ropey pass-the-parcel (one girl had the parcel passed to her 3 times and STILL didn't get a sweet... Conclusion: do not delegate parcel making to Husband and godmother after they've drunk a bottle of wine). And generally it was a good day.
So now I own a 3 year old and a 6.5year old. And now I'm batting off my mum who's eyeing up my midrift every now and again to see if there is another one on the way. NO MUM THERE'S NOT IT'S JUST ANOTHER ROUND OF BRIE. Bugger off.
And now I have to go through the fun task of writing thankyou letters on behalf of a screaming toddler who wouldn't have a clue who gave her what, and has probably lost the bits to the new jigsaw already and spilt all the Luxury Waitrose Bubbles all over her new Mermaid costume etc.
I love being a mum.
Now I search for the wine. The paper. And a half-spent felt tip to make the letters look genuinely from a three year old. "dear gwanny. fank u for the tent. I pee'd in it and then it bwoke. love liz."