Back to normal

There's a noticeable lifting of spirits at the Pile, so we're all back to normal.

Back to normal means:

Tiger and Shark hiss-fitting with claws over possession of the beaded fork.

Grit goes shopping at Tesco, gets to the checkout, and has no means of payment. The bill is £43.86. I have 10p in my pocket along with a confiscated Playmobil policeman. All the shopping gets taken off me and put behind a special desk until I go home and find a purse.

I find all the overdue library books stuffed behind the soft toy box.

Squirrel spills apple juice all over the floor and uses all the tea towels to mop it up with, despite being told where the apple juice mopping-up cloths can be found.

Mummy Grit opens a document on the computer to typeset and is then called away. In my absence Tiger comes and leans on the keyboard. The author will write back 'Actually, I did not write 'Trubetzkoy proposed, in 1938, xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx a ddddddddddddddd vxdx bnmnbnnm counter-model.'

Mummy Grit has coped with triplets as normal, with great patience and calm and when she has wanted to kick things, gone upstairs and kicked the laundry basket where it is all quiet and no-one can see and she can pretend she was just visiting the loo.

Well, everything's normal.

And Sasha's inability to cope with a household of triplets has made me think just what we have managed. We have stuck together through the shock of three; through the birth and the near death of it; through the loss of three dear people, including both our mothers within the first year of life; through the ongoing financial ruin; the child-bomb that blew up our marriage; the change of our lifestyles; change of status; change of careers. And we're still here and still surviving. Our family is rich, profound, complex, disorganised, strong, generous, bizarre and chaotic. And I'm proud of it.

Mostly.

And that's normal.