Happy third birthday, kiddos.

Happy third birthday, kiddos.

Holidays

My mother gave me a sound telling off about not updating this blog often enough. I'm pretty sure she is about to revoke my membership of the human race if I don't get my act together, so here are more holiday photos.

You're welcome.

They are always doing this. Okay, maybe not. I totally told them to kiss, but hey, they did it, so I figure I win at parenting. For once. 

Lulu on the carousel in Honfleur. As you can tell, she loved it. Isaias, on the other hand -
"I NOT go on carousel! Carousel too scawy!" This joins a long list of things that are too scawy, including watching Finding Nemo and eating meat.

After two minutes on the carousel - already feeling pretty nonchalant about it. Carousel? Whatever.

Whatcha doin, twins?

Uh.... just hanging around.  (Sorry, had to be done).

More kissing. I guess I win at facilitating grandparent / grandchild relations, too. 

The beach! It was very warm and sunny. Obviously.

 It was a gorgeous beach, actually. This was pretty much the only two minutes of sunshine we got all week, but those two minutes were lovely.

 Giving us the look that sums up one of her favourite phrases: "I BUSY!"

 so grown up.

 such a baby.

  

 So beautiful.

So unaware that he is not actually a dog.

 We went to an aquarium. There were lots of fish.

 It was freakishly, ridiculously, insanely rainy. It rained every day. Actually, it poured every day. This day, Isaias and I ran down to the beach to build sandcastles in the rain - J and Lulu were too chicken tired. We got thoroughly, utterly, bewilderingly wet. And for ten minutes, as we got soaked to the skin and I kept digging in the sand with my boy anyway, I truly felt like a good mother. 

Ten minutes after that, of course, I told him that we were going go back inside, and Nanna got these pictures. Please note how self-satisfied I look. Also - wearing this wet wool cardigan is probably the only time I have smelt worse than my two-year-old.   

 

 More kissing. I'm sensing a pattern. Also: I don't want to criticise my two-year-old's technique, but please note that I am not the one going straight in with an open mouth. French kissing indeed. 

And that's it, I think. 

Back

We are just back from France. (The compensation for British weather, of course, is that France is only a ferry 

away). Two weeks with no wi-fi, so I've come back to a pile of un-checked email (including some moderately 

important work stuff - oh, well) and several hundred unread blog posts. You'd think I might have used all the 

non-internet time for getting useful stuff done, but no- mostly I was just eating butter. (Did I mention we were 

in France?) The area we were in (Brittany) has this amazing butter which is unsalted -creamy and almost 

sweet - but studded with big flaky salt crystals. Honestly.Honestly. It's like having your mouth filled with dancing

 angels. Why don't the rest of us demand that our own butter manufacturers get on board with this? In the first 

four days, we had to go back to the shop three times to buy more butter because we were eating it so darn fast.

 Also - the other regional speciality is this same salted butter boiled up with sugar to make salted butter 

caramel. Salted butter caramel everywhere! Why did nobody tell me this? I would have gone years ago. 

On a related note - she who goes to France without elasticated waistbands is an idiot. Ahem.

Anyway. I'd say that it's good to be back except it's not - it stinks to be back. I feel discombobulated and 

discomposed and cranky. Why isn't my fridge full of salty crunchy creamy butter? Why aren't my parents 

getting the children up in the mornings?  Why isn't there a beach outside my window? I don't want to go 

back to work, and I don't want John to go back either. Why can't we go to the aquarium instead? Also - why 

did I think that it was a good idea to book the children's first dentist appointment tomorrow? 

I love holidays. I really do. I just hate how, for the first few days back, I always feel like this: