Today my son is three.
Last week Lady Violet came to visit. She snuck into his room while he was sleeping and pulled back the covers to see how much he'd grown, having not seen him for nearly a year.
"Fuckin'ell Troutie, he's a giant!"
It's true. I'm buying clothes for a 3 year old who is the size of a 5 year old. He's in the 99.6th percentile. Which means that only 0.4 percent of children his age are taller than him.
If it seems that I only ever blog twice a year on my children's birthdays, you'd be right.
I am officially the world's worst blogger. The last time I left a comment on anyone else's blog was sometime in the early nineties when mobile phones were still the size of bricks.
Between the utter exhaustion of working and raising two children and the pressure of trying to keep a relationship alive when you are mostly ships passing in the night, I am also in the process of starting a charity. They'll be more on this later.......
I'm sure that some of those excuses will sound familiar to all of you.
Meanwhile, my daughter has turned one with no dramas. Bushman executed the affair with finesse and a professionalism which, as usual, made me want to sleep with him. The truckload of Jamaicans did not turn up which was rather a shame as it would have made this post more interesting.
Since then I have visited an art exhibition about prison, danced with some pensioners on a canal boat, booked a family holiday to Bultlins in Bognor Regis, eaten cake with a group of Buddhists and a heroin addict has offered me her unborn baby to look after.
And quite how you follow that sentence, I'm not sure.
Happy Birthday to my first born. and a happy third birth day to me. XXXXX
1 month ago