Giant Poo and a heat wave

My day started with a giant poo. It was Isaac's. It was almost like a morning greeting. Well, the one after he woke me up at about 4 and then 5ish and then finally, at 5.50am, when I admitted defeat and took him downstairs. (Where he had the cheek to cry when I put him on the floor - something that he does when he's tired and wants cuddles). Luckily, I went to bed early last night. 

But it's never good when your day starts with a giant poo. It was just sort of everywhere... down his legs et cetera. It was a bit like the other day, which was one of those which starts with extra jobs to do before - literally - you've got out of bed. Where he had pooed all over the bed. Needless to say I hadn't managed to put the freshly-washed fitted sheet on. So, instead, it went on the mattress protector. I didn't mention it to Michael. (In fact, he won't read this blog; he hates to hear about poo of any kind). 

So I'm not going to lie and say that the day has not been coloured by exhaustion and irritation. What is it about Tuesdays? Again, it crossed my mind not to bother with play group... But it's the last one I think, until the summer holidays. But it has just been so H-O-T today. And not in a good way. (Is it ever, in England? the least-prepared country in the world for extreme temperatures?) It's been one of those 'you-cannot-possibly-wear-black-leggings' kind of days. Everything makes you irritable in this heat. I've had to wear my beach trousers, even though they don't have a button (mind you, it wouldn't do up even if it did), just because I cannot cope with any other materials. It was that or no trousers at all and I don't think anyone would appreciate that.

Of course, today was the day when the play group had a fire engine coming. (Weren't we hot enough?? ). So all the children wanted to go outside to see, while I was desperately trying to stay inside, parked on the one chair that was shaded and where there was a light breeze from the open door. It was a luxury spot. Baby Isaac was very accommodating; he just sat on the mat twizzling plastic things in his hands and was very happy, while I stared at him in a kind of dazed state. Probably because I have hardly any plastic in the house - I always gravitate towards wooden, silent toys for my sanity - they have a novelty impact for him. 

Anyway, after spotting the fire engine, Grace exited the building and then there was no going back because she saw the Sand Pit and the buckets of water she could use to 'paint' the concrete outside. Sigh. It was game over. I endured it for 10 minutes and then, when she got into a fisty-cuffs with a boy who had 'snatched' her brush, I admitted defeat for the second time today and we left early. I don't think we've ever done that before. Emergency measures had to be taken. 

But I've been reading the Five Languages of Love and my irritation could be linked to that. When I read the different categories, I was convinced my 'language' is Affirming Words. If you give me sincere compliments, my 'love tank' (ha) is filled right up. And then I read the one on gifts and thought that, to my surprise, that might be my second one. Apparently you can be bilingual. I didn't think I was a gifts person. But as I read it , I thought 'hmm, maybe me', because if you speak the 'Gifts Language' then you love to have gifts that are not expensive but where a lot of thought has been put in. You also love, above all, the gift of someone's physical presence - especially at a bad time. But then I pondered more and more on the Language of Affection. That one makes sense too. It said that if someone speaks this 'lingo' then they appreciate gifts like plush slippers or cashmere jumpers. Well, yeah, that's me!, I thought. 

Then I started thinking about it more and I thought about all the times in teaching when I used to feel furious at the end of the day because I was just wearing the wrong thing. It would ruin my day. I might wear, say, tights, on a warm day. Or a top that was just slightly too tight around the back, due to my need to indulge in chocolate to get through my marking. Then I thought of all the things I love the most: feather (goose and not duck) pillows, linen trousers, Egyptian cotton towels, lovely wooden items, laundry bins made from just the right material (oh dear), cool marble floors, the exact right hair bobble, the perfect pen (either fountain or those Papermate ones that just glide across the page). I thought of my weird hatred of spiky things, sharp corners, black leggings, nylon tights, scratchy biros (possibly the worst), rubber gloves, the wrong keyboard on a computer, high heels, a missing hair bobble on a warm day or any day, polyester of any colour, shape or size, stainless steel kitchens, woolly itchy blankets and, finally, finally, Baby Isaac biting me. I thought I was just a bit of a snob who had acquired champagne tastes over the years while earning beer money, but this sheds a whole new light on it. So for those of you who get unreasonably at-the edge-of-your-sanity infuriated by small things to do with the sense of touch, this might be your love language. And you can turn it to your advantage, my friend. Now I can book that massage/acupuncture/holiday with the perfectly-cool swimming pool without guilt. It's my new way of showing myself love, after all! And if you can't love yourself then who can you love, they say. John Lewis, here I come. 

Anyway, not much left to say about today. I have been looking around the house obsessing about the kind of materials that everything is made of and whether or not they meet my Love Language need. Michael might get back to find half the house is at the tip.