Last week was a long one. It had a
particularly tantrumy start on Monday morning with a lot of porridge flinging
and wiping and general mind-changing. Amid the bafflement of ‘Milk or juice?
Ok, milk. Oh, no ok, here’s the juice. Wrong again – milk it is. Or neither…
no, the cat doesn’t want it…’ there was a certain amount of shaking coming from
upstairs. With husband being ill, I’d left him sick in bed. ‘Daddy must be
feeling better,’ I told no one in particular. ‘It sounds like he’s having a
shower.’ I continued to field the grumping until we left for nursery.
On my return, it seemed husband’s preparations for work had taken a noisier turn. As I opened up my laptop, it began to tremble to a sequence of furious thuds from above. I moved suddenly into panic mode – he must have fallen over! Or was he dying? Rushing up the stairs, flinging open the bedroom door, my heart pounded. What would I find?
On my return, it seemed husband’s preparations for work had taken a noisier turn. As I opened up my laptop, it began to tremble to a sequence of furious thuds from above. I moved suddenly into panic mode – he must have fallen over! Or was he dying? Rushing up the stairs, flinging open the bedroom door, my heart pounded. What would I find?
