He basically follows me round the house emptying cupboards, upturning boxes of Lego or spitting out mouthfuls of grapes that he's been storing in his cheeks for anything up to a record two hours (including a nap.)
I reach the end of cleaning the house only to turn round and see a small trail-of-destruction grinning at me, and around we go again.
I want to be all, 'they're just children, let them have fun' about it.
But really I would like to put my children in a Pope-mobile-style container in the middle of the front room whilst I cleaned round them, then rush them out the house, one under each arm like a couple of rugby balls, before they had chance to touch anything.
I Pinterest the fuck out of white, calm, Scandinavian-inspired houses, and wonder if one day I might be brave enough to paint anything white.
We attempted it on one wall, which is now a collage of marmitey hand prints.
We attempted it on one wall, which is now a collage of marmitey hand prints.
I imagine myself, all- glass of something that cost more than £4.99 from Aldi in one hand, and an award-winning book that doesn't involve a detective or have pictures in it in the other; sitting on a white sofa, illuminated by white walls that hang an eclectic mix of original prints.
The rug wouldn't be hiding a selection of Lego pieces ready to tread on with bare feet.
And the remote control would be where I put it down, instead of hidden with a variety of other 'treasures' in the cupboard under the sink.
This is, I realise, just a dream, at least for the next few years anyway.
So until that time I shall just learn to embrace the squalor.
And carry a bottle of Detol spray around with me on a holster at all times.
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