Twin boys energy never ceases to amaze, from the moment he wakes (around 6.30am) till he goes to sleep (around 7pm) he talks.
And he talks, and he talks, and he talks…
In short he never bloody shuts up. His conversational starters are unique, ranging from…
“Let me tell you how to make ice-cream” (and getting the process pretty much bang on)
“Twenty seven minus thirteen is fourteen mummy” (he’s five)
“I am going to fart on your nose with my poo poo bottom.”
In short the little terror is either going to have his own chain of ice cream vans, be a mathematical genius or audition for Britain’s Got Talent as ‘Mr Methane 2.”
I adore him, he amuses me incessantly, he can make me cry with laughter.
Then he can drive me the point of crazy where I lose my cool and often my vocal cords as I yell like a mother possessed.
His hearing is faulty, I say no, he hears yes. I say stop as he climbs up a tree; he calls back, top? Yes I am going that way.
He eats like a child who has never seen food, his lips smack together whilst his tongue licks his fingers sloppily between bites. His napkin is his shirt and his pockets are filled with vegetables he doesn’t want to eat.
He lives every moment in the moment, he sees a ball and he boots it, sees a book and he reads it. Needs a poo, well, unfortunately, sometimes he just does it. Life is too short to queue for the loo.
He is a train driver, an inventor, a magician, and a pilot. One day he’s a cowboy and the next he’s a native threatening the flowers with a bow made of string and an twig shaped like an arrow.
He’s delightful and demented, driven to distract.
He’s my little devil, who owns a third of my heart…