This means regular pools of liquid on the dirtiest floor known to woman.
Coupled with two other clumbsy young kids spilling everything and using the floor to store all their stuff and my house is a wreck and a wasteland.
As I write, I'm looking at the remains of the dinner next to me and all the kiddie junk scattered on the floor and wondering when my fairy godmother will materialise and magic them away, cleaning the house for me so I can put my feet up and relax with the new episode of the Mentalist (please be on RTE player, please be on RTE player).
It's been a testing week.
Here in our lovely little corner of Ireland, we've had 4 seasons this week.
Sunshine and clear dramatic skies. Red glowing vistas and leaves blowing around again. Daffodills struggling to keep their heads on, wondering what on earth is going on.
Icy wind and then snow. Cue husband springing into action with a bag of salt, leaving massive clumps of white salt all over our front path (and naturally our hallway and downstairs floors when we stepped inside). The path outside our house still looks like we have snow, when the rest of Ireland is basking in sunshine.
Yes we live in a strange micro-bubble.
It's one of those weeks where I can't be bothered. There's just too much to do. Another spillage, throw a towel on it. Stuff on the floor, kick it in a corner.
The washing machine is stinking because of all the wet, manky towels sitting in it.
The other day I left a towel used for mopping up milk sitting in the washing machine for 5 days! After a few days of sniffing around wondering what had died in my utility room, I located the source of the stench. One mouldy, rancid towel locked inside the washing machine. Straight into the bin, no rescue for that poor mouldly towel.
Who knew that milk in a confined moist space could grow life so quickly?
These are the daily joys of a stay at home mum. That and bum wiping and stepping into unexpected puddles of wee when only wearing socks, but I'll go into that another day, perhaps when I put a bit of energy into potty training my nappy-allergic 22 month old.
So this is a snapshot of my life, ending in me losing it bigtime over dinner when my 5 year old told me he hated me for the 10th time today. Mealtimes are stressful at the best of times!
And there's just only enough patience a mum can have!
Yet to look at them, they're just little angels.
But the devil has power to assume a pleasing shape, right? [Hamlet]
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