Yesterday, in a moment of despair, I locked the triplets in the garden. I say ‘locked’ – I shoved them gently but firmly outside, shut the door and okay yes, I turned the key but just for a minute – honest. I then started to weep (a tad dramatically it has to be said) as Jake sat watching me from the sofa with a ‘uh-oh, she’s off…’ look on his face. It doesn’t happen often – the weeping so openly in front of the children thing and I can honestly say that the locking them in the garden thing was definitely a first. But, far from being traumatised by my ‘Mommy Dearest’ moment Ella, Louis and Theo seemed completely oblivious to the fact that they were being punished and had a whale of a time frolicking outside. How could they not? Glorious sun, the paddling pool – throw in a few thirst quenching non-alcoholic cocktails and it would have been a day at the Hamptons. I kept them outside just long enough to calm myself down, scrape cottage pie and yoghurt off the carpet and wimper to my startled big boy that ‘mummy really, really needs a break.’
I’m wondering if the sun is sending them a bit loopy. The level of chaos, destruction and violence (theirs not mine, promise) has gone up several notches since the sudden appearance of Mr Blue Sky this week. Is it heat stroke? Sudden, huge amounts of much needed Vitamin D cursing through their veins? Whatever the reason, I’m scared. Daily life has turned into something resembling a badly made horror movie – The Attack of the Toddler Triplets. They’re closing in, there’s no escape, run for your lives… or at least bring back the bloody rain.