Mr R was on a conference this weekend. Which would have been ok had our plans to go and spend the time with my parents not been scuppered by the looming threat of Chicken Pox (see previous October blogs!). So come Saturday morning, after being woken at 6am by my wonderful husband's stupidly loud alarm on his phone (wrong settings, oops, sorry dear!) the weekend went from bad to worse.
Saturday Aunt Flo decided to pay a visit, which is an infrequent and irregular occurance since I am still breastfeeding Baby R. Thank God for my fabulous Mooncup is all I can say, pop it in and off you go. Toddler R is in the early days of potty training and decided to choose Sunday as the day to hold everything in and refuse to wee, leaving me to prod, pursuade, and eventually beg before he would sit on the potty and do his stuff. So it was lunchtime by the time I got to go for a wee myself, and get a shower. Of course, you can predict what happened next can't you ...
I return to my (luckily laminate floored) bedroom to find a huge puddle of wee - the reasonable amount in the potty having only been the first installment obviously. Baby R (who is now on the move with a mix of roll, shuffle and crawl) delighted in making big splashy noises in it, while Toddler R himself had found the excellent game of sliding around the puddle and splashing down into it. I cried. Lots. Although everyone I have told the tale to assures me I will find it hilarious in years to come ...
When Mr R returned home from said conference, he was handed two darling children, and I walked out of the house. I took my current read (The Love Knot, by Elizabeth Chadwick, very good stuff) to our local Italian restaurant, sat with a small glass of pink and a steaming hot Lasagne, not cooked by myself, and wallowed in the bliss of the moment. Two hours later it was back to the grind, but at least I grabbed a break.
Never again Mr R, Never again.
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