I return upstairs from spending 17 minutes on the phone to the doctor’s surgery, trying unsuccessfully to get an appointment for Tumble, who has conjunctivitis.
There is a distinctly unpleasant aroma in the air.
The bathroom floor is a mess of poo. Unable to reach the toilet rolls (when the one on the holder ran out), one of them has resorted to using the white towel. Unsuccessfully, I might add.
I finish moping up the bathroom musing that at least clearing up other people’s shit, at the office, was purely metaphorical.
It’s when I go into the bedroom that I realise that child x has also sat on the carpet with their bare inadequately wiped bottom.
Tumble has her eight month check up with Patronising Health Visitor, who is full of helpful suggestions like. “Wipe her eyes with clean tissue, to remove the gunk from her eyes”, as if I could not have worked this out for myself. She is somewhat horrified that I do not wait until the children are in bed before doing the ironing (she obviously doesn’t realise how infrequent this event is) I decline the post-natal depression questionnaire, but I can tell she isn’t wholly convinced of the wisdom of this. Finally, she tells me that everything is fine and that I shouldn’t worry about Tumble’s speech.