Daughter one seemed to get rid of ther nappy in days. Son Two is a nightmare. We were in the doctors perfectly on time when he did a "Little Britain" partly into his wellies and partly on the waiting room floor.
Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall extolls the virtues of cooking as therapy. Last Sunday I tried a bit for myself. He was sat on the kitchen workbench calmly watching me cook when a puddle appeared beneath him, just as the onions were sizzling away. So much for peaceful therapy!
And coupled with Daughter shouting "I've FINISHED!" I feel like one of the Bottom Inspectors out of Viz Comic.
Is it me or is this phase perhaps the - forgive this - the shittiest phase between babyhood and childhood?