When did it become September? Seriously. I'm seriously asking. I'd only just adjusted to it being 2010, and here we are, in September already. And I somehow missed August. I've no idea where that month went. Up in a little puff of dampened, rainy, somewhat disappointing smoke I presume.
More unbelievably, when did D become 1? I know it's the ultimate cliche, but I still can't quite connect the little dark-eyed, screechy red thing in my arms on 17th September 2009, with the blue eyed boy sitting in front of his cake exactly a year later. (though he does still get red and screechy on a fairly regular occasion.)
It was a nice day, actually. To watch D as he delightedly stormed his way through parcels and parcels of presents was great fun. And of course, he was taken through the traditional rite of passage of my husband's family - the obligatory visit to a bird watching Hide. D was actually fairly impressed, and showed his enthusiasm by hitting the window very hard, scaring the birds away and sort of missing the point of it all. We also took him to a swannery, to look at...yes, yes, that's right, there's a theme here, we went to look at more birds. He really likes birds though. He gets most excited when he sees them overhead and goes quite frantic, waving his arms and pointing and ensuring that Mummy has noticed them. (it's quite difficult to feign enthusiasm when you're looking at the 18th pigeon seen that morning, but somehow I muster up the correct smiley face.)
Though today, a few days after, D has come down with an almighty crash. (perhaps its all the sugar from his birthday cake finally vacating his system.) We've had full on screaming fits today, with the one window of cheerfulness being his visit to the local playgroup, where he hared around the toys like a creature possessed, and insisted on playing with the bigger kids, even though this meant perpetual risk of being mowed down by a series of plastic tractors and trikes.
As a result, I feel like a hurricane has hurtled through the house, which incidentally, looks a bit that way as well. The house is a mass of toys and paint pots and general alarming chaos. But, on the house note, we are getting there. The kitchen is pretty much completed, aside from one wall which needs a paint, and of course, the dust needs clearing up (I will do it at some point. I will do it. If I say it enough, it will come true.)
The project at the moment for hubbie and me is chipping away at the thick layer of revolting sticky grey glue that is coating the Victorian tiles in the hallway. Each tile takes on average about 7 or 8 minutes. Doesn't sound like a lot, until you realise that there are about 300 tiles. Bah. I actually made my wrist stop working the other day, through over-vigorous (and rather bad tempered) chiselling. Seriously, it wouldn't move for the best part of a day. (I think husband at this point wished that the same could be said for my mouth muscles, to silence my tirade of bitching and moaning...)
I have come to the regrettable conclusion that I am not a natural DIYer. I don't relish these tasks at all. I feel no joy in their undertaking. Rather, I get rather venomous towards them, and tend to end up swearing a lot, kicking paint trays across the floor, hitting things rather over-energetically with hammers and storming out of various rooms, declaring that I will never 'chisel those bloody tiles / paint another f***ing wall / sand down another stair as long as I live'.
Bet I do though. Sigh.
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