FLYING WITHOUT WINGS, BABY!

IT WAS 11am and I was sweating. What had I done so far that morning? Not much. Been woken up at 5.30am by a little girl who was desperate to sing Twinkle Twinkle and play with Mamma.

That was after I’d been up all night feeding her and her big brother medicine for their sore throats/colds/coughs and mystery virus – which is what doctor’s say when they don’t know what’s wrong.

Then there was breakfast, loading the washing machine, dishwasher, making the beds, changing Anais’ nappy, telling Deme to turn the TV down, changing Anais’ nappy, deciding Deme wasn’t well enough to go to school, giving him more medicine, changing Anais’ nappy and stopping Deme playing baseball/football/tennis/wrestling in the front room after the medicine started working.

I live in a house full of stairs. I may be fat but all that running up and down means I have killer legs. I could be a leg model if I bothered to wax them and apply fake tan.

But I never have the time to do anything other than go to the loo and even that I have to do it with an audience. ‘What are you doing, Mamma?’ my seven-year-old son will ask, barging in.

‘Going to the toilet obviously,’ I’ll say. But he wants me to be specific. ‘Nooo,’ I’ll shriek, disgusted. That’s nothing though, compared to the curiosity of Anais, whose 18 months.

She’ll try and push me off the toilet so she can look down it – or peer at my bottom. I long for the days when I can lock the door, but I daren’t right now in case they fall down the stairs/set fire to the house/ find an adult channel on Sky or throw juice or milk all over my computer.

Finally, sweat pooling, I checked the time. Maybe I could have two minutes rest before emptying the washing machine and dishwasher and getting the lunch ready.

No such luck. Anais wanted her book read to her and Deme wanted me to be in goal. Who said being a mum wasn’t fun?

Finally, a couple of hours later and I could finally sit down. Both children had been watered, fed, wiped down and now Anais was having her nap while Deme watched TV.

I even made myself a cup of tea. Then I remembered I hadn’t put on the baby monitor. My calf muscles were aching. Our house was tall and skinny with each room on a different floor. I couldn’t go up another four flights of stairs again for at least another hour but my little girl’s room was at the top of the house and I was in the kitchen.

‘Deme, can you go and check if your sister’s crying?’ I called up to him in the living room. He didn’t want to so I offered chocolate, an extra hour’s stay up before bed and a playdate with any friend of his choice at the weekend. Finally he agreed.

‘OK,’ he called back down, and I heard the thump, thump of his flat feet on the stairs. He banged all the way back down again as I sipped that delicious cup of tea.

‘It’s OK, Mamma,’ he sighed. ‘She’s not flying.’

I had to laugh. What did he expect to find Anais doing in her room – piloting a helicopter or practising trapeze style pirouettes on a high wire?

Oh well, rest over. I’d have to go upstairs again after all and leave my tea unfinished. Time to get Deme’s ears looked at again!