This morning was one of those mornings when being a parent seemed ridiculously stressful.
My wife had gone into hospital with a kidney infection, and so I was left to look after my three kids, who incidentally had chosen this particular day to be little gits. By breakfast time – which was a case of throwing a bowl of dry Shreddies at them and hoping some went in their mouths – I was longing for the day when I could just walk through a room, from one side to the other, without having to wade through a sea of children, sidestep toys or start crying.
Crying also featured heavily this morning. In fact, whilst I was trying to get dressed with Jemima clinging on to my calves, Noah burst into the room with his eyes drippy and his cheeks blotchy, wailing that Isaac was being mean to him. When Noah held my waist Jemima had a fit of jealousy and threw herself onto the floor amidst my dirty socks and jogging bottoms. Two-thirds of my children were crying loudly, and I was barely dressed.
Isaac – the only dry-eyed child in the house – then ran into the room, threw a piece of paper at me, and ran out, slamming his bedroom door behind him. The note was hastily scrawled, but summed up pretty much exactly how I felt.