It's gone from being all good to being all crazy around here this past few days. Seriously, Patrick has too much energy for his own good, Conor has definite kamikaze tendencies and I'm going to need medicated pretty soon!

Take yesterday for starters. All was (generally) well in the morning, with the exception of Conor hurling himself from my bed, only to be caught by his ankle about 1" from the floor. He was altogether unperturbed! Patrick went to nursery as usual and Conor and I mooched around Bangor for a while. However, while making lunch a mere hour or two later I did my best to slice my thumb off with the cheese slicer. Obviously my first reaction was to swear - loudly - I'm sure that will be coming back to haunt me before long! Then I had to direct Patrick to the clean tea towels, thinking only that I had to stop the bleeding and also act like nothing was wrong. I wish I'd been able to see my face because it can only have been deranged, as those of you who know me well enough will be aware that I don't do blood. At all!! Anyway, the drama all passed in a few moments once I realised it was only a knick and that a diget transplant was probably going to be unlikely!

So the day trundled on. Conor was so grumpy after lunch that I gave him Medised before his sleep. Normally we reserve that for the middle of the night croup episodes, but he was GRUMPY. He continued to grump after his sleep, and all through tea. I'd even made a special Annabel Karmel pasta sauce to try and make myself feel better about the number of jars he gets. But he spat that out. (That woman has a lot to answer for if you ask me. I bet there are hate sites for her, run by women who have picky eaters for kids and not gourmet angels!)

However, the list of catastrophes continued with Patrick's spectacular skid and fall in the hall, in response to the man from Bangor fuels who obviously gets a high from the number of times he rings the bell and knocks the door. Poor Patrick went on his rear end and cracked his head off the skirting board.

After tea, I noticed that Conor had settled himself on the bottom stair, where it was obvious from looking at the way he was kneeling that it was only a matter of time before he also had dealings with the hall floor. Which he promptly did as I went to lift him down. Strike 1!

I decided there was nothing for it but to put them both in the bath early. All smashing fun and giggles until suddenly (and I don't know how he actually managed to do this) Conor sort of threw himself face down in the water, then flailed around for a bit and rolled over onto his back, coughing and breathing water in what seemed to be rather large amounts for a 1 year old. Cue me, deranged look on face again and another loud dose of swearing as I lunged to get him up from under the water! This all seems hilarious now, but it was terrifying at the time. Even Patrick was crying, although, thinking about it that was probably more to do with my odd looking face and profanities! Anyway, crisis averted, Conor was fine in just a few minutes. Strike 2!

The final stages of single handed bathing is always a bit of a risk, now that Conor is well and truly mobile. So this one really came as not much of a shock. Just as I was lifting Patrick out of the bath, there was a decidedly plastic clunk followed by crying from the bedroom. I couldn't really even see the wee man when I went in, because he'd pulled Patrick's ELC firehouse off the shelf and onto his head and was lying trapped between the toy unit and the plastic table and chairs. Strike 3! He didn't even need Medised to go to sleep! He had basically tortured himself to the point of unconsciousness!

And today I got to do it all again! Who says motherhood isn't the most rewarding job in the world? Bring on Daddy's day off on Saturday - surely no one is going to deny me a trip to the new scrap shop in Newtownards after the couple of days I've just had?!