Mother [to herself]: Aren’t they playing nicely. I’ve nailed this.
Mother [to children]: I’m going to get dressed my little cherubs, lights of my life, future of my world.
Children: [Completely blank the person who gave them life]
Mother leaves stage left
Mother enters stage left
Mother: Fucks sake
(In the 30 seconds allotted for selfcare the children have launched a rescue mission for their pens being held hostage in the spare room. Only one pen seems to have made it out alive though, with the insides of the other’s splattered across the walls of the room. Those poor unfortunate souls.
All is okay though because the three year old insists [still with pen in hand, pen still drawing on wall] that it wasn’t her fault but in fact solely her younger brother. She can prove it, see, there he is still finishing off his abstract mural. The conflicting lines and colours apparently show a country divided by those in charge competing for attention.)
Mother: This is bollocks.
Three year old: Yes that’s his point.
(Mother searches for cleaning solutions online while the children go back to playing nicely in their own room, probably, mother doesn’t know because she’s desperately trying to find a bottle of hairspray she bought in 2002 which Mumsnet assures her is the answer to her problems.
Upon triumphantly finding the sodding hairspray and some questionably old body butter at the back of the bathroom cupboard Mother muses that it’s not all bad as she can repurpose the body butter as a Christmas present. She turns to find the youngest dipping a bottle in the toilet and licking it.
The spare room which is still covered in pen now also stinks of Elnett and Mother is going to spend her son’s university fund on wine because even the dogs don’t drink out of the bloody toilet.)