Crocodile Panic!

I’ve not blogged for ages. That’s not because, as the title of this post may lead you to believe, I’ve been on some Amazon-based adventure trip, but actually because my life has come to resemble one of those arcade games where you are given a mallet and get to whack small mammals (usually crocs if my memory serves?) as they pop through holes in the table in front of you.

All metaphorical, of course. I haven’t really resorted to child cruelty although there may be a good case for adult cruetly on their part. No, it’s more a sense of frantically trying to maintain control over the kids (small mammals) as they investigate every cupboard, full glass of water, pile of important paperwork, dangerous item and so on (the popping out of holes bit).

This morning, I wanted to use the facilities, as should be the basic human right of every living individual. I’ve long since given up on having any peace when going through my ablutions and, since the recent successful potty training episode with Bumble (another reason for not bloggin recently; I didn’t really want to regale you all with continual stories about poo and wee) I now even get congratulations and “well done mummy, you are clever” upon completion of my act.

But this morning went a step further. I know we have a small age gap between the girls and, now that Bimble is pretty much a toddler, things are pretty difficult if they decide to scatter in different directions. Bimble still isn’t safe on the stairs so a trip to the loo, for myself or Bumble, needs to involve all of us, in a pretty small room and, therefore, the sense of Crocodile Panic starts (cue tacky music and lights flashing, hurdy-gurdy style).

Trying to use the toilet, make sure Bumble uses the toilet, make sure Bimble doesn’t put anything down the toilet and make sure Bumble’s toilet tissue does end up down the toilet is bad enough when you’re not an octopus with the reaction time of a speed camera. But doing all that while Bimble is trying to open cupboard doors, take caps off of bubble bath, drop various items into the bin, open the door or throw herslef into the bath head-first starts to feel a little difficult. And a lot like that crazy arcade game. Except I can’t whack them with a mallet, soft or otherwise. I have to coax, cajole, bribe, find alternatives to stop the inevitable tantrum if I take something away.

We emerge from the bathroom, me in something of a sweat, and I realise it’s 6.35. In the morning. I wonder absently whether it’s possible this level of energy output constitutes a workout; therefore something I can feel remotely good about, or will actually get some benefit from.

Time to head downstairs and work out how to stall them for long enough to get dressed. Grapes should do it. Or maybe I should buy the actual arcade game. They’d love it. Would keep them amused for hours. If only we had more space in the lounge….

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