Can I have my computer back please?

This is going to have to be quick. I haven’t been able to get any quality time on my own computer for over a week and already the little vultures are circling shouting ‘when is it MY turn on the computer?’ School’s only been out for a week and already the children are revolting (in more ways than one). Their attitude to all things electronic would rival the average teenager; I need a crow-bar and a monkey-wrench to get them off the Internet and Poppet has made a permanent impression of her little bottom on the sofa from gawping at the telly. Even when I managed to drag them out to a fun-park last week Pickle spent all of lunch-time looking over the shoulder of a boy on the next table who was playing Sonic on his Game-boy. Yesterday I resolutely refused to let them on the computer and tried my hardest to interest them in colouring, play-dough, junk-modelling or jigsaw puzzles, all with no luck. As it was raining (again) I allowed the TV but when they eventually tired of CBeebies after 3 hours they reverted to their next favourite activity: sibling-baiting. They have truly taken the art of teasing to another level. You know, when I was expecting my second child I had a big debate with my fellow Mums about what qualifies you for the diamond eternity ring. Opinion was divided – some reckoned you earn it for having the first child, others thought it was the second child, or the first 10 years of marriage. Personally I think all three achievements deserve a prize but I managed to persuade Nobby with the 'first boy' argument and happily took delivery of a little row of sparklers. However with hindsight I should also have got a black t-shirt and shorts and a referee’s whistle. Far less dazzling but that yellow card would have been worn right through by now. As I write, my little darlings are waiting patiently for their turn; one is in her customary place on the sofa watching TV while the other one is right beside her playing with the noisiest toy he can find – his new Bingo game which has 90 tiny numbered balls inside a revolving plastic globe and makes a noise like hail on a tin roof. It’s all going to end in tears I just know it, as the volume creeps higher and higher. And of course they’ll both say the other one started it. I saw a TV programme once which was investigating at what age children learn how to lie. Personally I think they master them one at a time starting with ‘it wasn’t me’, which does cover a multitude of sins although clearly doesn’t work in all situations. For instance, Poppet had already been in trouble for producing a work of art on her bedroom wall; clearly ‘it wasn’t me’ didn’t wash because her brother can’t, and won’t, draw princesses and it was right by her pillow. That was some time ago and I managed to clean most of it off and remove all the pens and pencils from her room. But as I was making her bed the other day I noticed she’d added some new enhancements to her design, all in a rather dull colour and with an interesting texture. I looked a bit closer and immediately had a flash-back to my own childhood as I realised what I was seeing. And, like Poppet, I couldn’t think of a good enough lie to respond convincingly to the same question my mother asked me all those years ago: ‘is that snot?’

Ah, they’ve made friends and disappeared upstairs now so I have a bit longer to update all the news. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to see my parents after being so ill that last week of school. Suddenly all the ironing disappeared and the foot-high grass was cut and the children had two fresh playmates to badger for the week. (Now they’ve gone I think Nana will be happy if she never sees another Barbie again and I doubt Grandpa will want to play chess for a while…) I already felt better by Saturday, which was good because Nobby’s cold, which had been festering all week, became so bad I confined him to bed for the day. He didn’t seem to mind, perhaps because he knew I had other company to help me out, possibly because that company was his in-laws, but probably because I told him he wouldn’t be welcome at Pickle’s party unless he threw off his germs. Whichever way, he was a good patient for once. The party next day was a great success and the cakes were stunning – one in the shape of a car and the other with Spiderman on top. The other parents, who are used to me making my own party cakes, were very complimentary and suggested again that I go into business. I just nodded knowingly, as I screwed up the Sainsbury’s receipt and hid it in my pocket. I have to say that despite the enormous expense, these party venues are a great idea as you can just walk away from all the mess and return to a house in the same state in which you left it. Unless you’re me, of course. Just to be different I had opted for a Lucky Dip instead of party bags and all the kids seemed to enjoy hunting through a huge tub of shredded paper for a small parcel at the end of the party. My own two enjoyed it so much that when they got home they each hid some of their toys in the tub so they could continue ‘dipping’. Of course the game soon evolved as they decided ‘let’s hide each other in the shredded paper!’. Naturally the tub was too small so the paper had to come out and completely ruined my tidy-house theory. Nice.

Hmm, I just saw a small person walk by carrying a pot of paint. I think I will have to save my account of the Book Club meeting - at which an interloper plied the group, and my Mum, with his extensive liqueur collection with interesting results – for another time. Assuming I can ever get back to the keyboard!