Kids everywhere, Chippie outside and getting into everything he shouldn’t, other two eating everything they can get their hands on and additional children being extremely well behaved and playing with things that are “new” to them.
Drag Chippie in, filthy, feed him dinner (all part of the immunisation program – at least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it) and it’s bath time.
I love bath time. I actualy get one. Admittedly, full of penises and farts, but a bath at any rate. Lots of baby bubbles, lavender oil and other “please, please do something to make my kids settle and go to sleep early!” type oils and bath additives.
That done, they’re dressed and ready for bed after a smidge of relaxing and winding down.
Cats start clawing at door, and perform the “Have you fed the cats yet? The ones you’re supposed to feed as soon as you get home from school?”
Routine continues; deep sighs, why can’t someone else do it, I hate cats, what have the cats ever done for me, blah blah blah, and out he goes to feed the cats.
Leaving door wide open (another, routinely had conversation) and the little one escapes, because outdoors is more fun that indoors.
Wonder about the logic of bathing babies. At any time of day, really. Is it to create a blank canvas for adding more dirt? Is it just so I have a better idea of when dirt was added to various body parts?
Collect him from outdoors; lament fact that not 7 minutes ago he smelt of clean, baby bubbles.
Take deep breath in – not really sniffing him, more in anticipation of rather significant sigh – hair no longer smelling mildy of lavender.
More along lines of cat food. And the vague scent of squished snail.