It’s just another evening of horrors.
My older boys, Ryan and Alfie, are fighting over a plastic Ninja Turtle sword, screaming at the top of their lungs. I have burned our dinner, having been distracted by the ‘you need to do your homework’ argument. As I am extracting the black lasagne from the oven, my three-year-old, Charlie, pulls the flour I have been using for the béchamel sauce onto the floor. The paper packet explodes with a bang. A puff of white mist fills the room. As I swat the air, inhaling a lungful of flour, Alfie, who has been running in socked feet away from Ryan, slips in the white powder. I’ve always been secretly proud of my five-year-old’s feline reflexes and quick thinking. This time, however, I am less than impressed when he grabs the kitchen blinds to break his fall. They certainly slow him down as they tear straight off the railing.Continue Reading