Bad bad Grit

The children are all grounded. This is because I have been driven to my wit's end by the constant screaming, fighting and arguing that has gone on all day at chez Grit.

Realistically, I should never have threatened everyone with a 24-hour grounding in the first place. Doing so made it only a matter of time before we got there. Anyway, I did, at 10am this morning, if the fighting did not stop. By 5pm I'd exhausted all my parental strategies, which admittedly are not many, and run out of smart options from a brain steaming with pain and frustration. So I gave in to the inevitable and shouted That's It! I've had enough! You are all grounded!

Then, after that line was delivered, and after the initial screaming and throwing soil passed, a strange silence fell upon all the house and no-one was anywhere to be seen. Squirrel, Shark and Tiger had put themselves into voluntary solitary confinement. If only they had done that when they were told to do so at 11 am, or separated even as the final straws were cracking at 4.55, then we might have got round this problem. I could have avoided the grounding and taken them off to play with En and Zee tomorrow in a field. We'd have made daisy chains, climbed fences and wondered why cows are the shape they are. I could have worked in a bit of Darwin and Newton's laws and felt a proper day's education had been done.

Tomorrow's fun was not meant to be. Despite the warnings, threats, the repeated threats, the final warnings and the final-final Now I'm counting warnings, injunctions, prohibitions, appeal to reason, just one more warning, Kaput. We are doomed. We have to stay in all tomorrow and probably repeat the same.

And if you are wondering just what three cute little 8-year old girls could possibly do that could be so bad, here are my notes.

8.55 am. Squirrel sits on the arm of the sofa. Shark, seated on the sofa, says Move! I cannot read my book! Squirrel edges her bum a bit closer to the page. Shark pushes Squirrel off the sofa. Squirrel retaliates with a cushion, book and two hands grasped around Shark's head.

9.40 am. Shark throws a bike at Tiger. Tiger retaliates with a tennis racquet.

10.15 am. Shark chants baby baby baby at Tiger, who growls, goes red in the face, clenches fists, screams, and throws soil and bits of plant at Shark. I get involved because it is my plant, dammit!

10.30 am. Squirrel in tears. She says Shark is being horrible. Shark says Squirrel is demanding to see entrance tickets of anyone wishing to sit on the swings at the bottom of the garden.

11.15 am to midday. Peace reigns and Grit compiles educational records should the local authority call. Dig, who is being very calm and patient and wonderful, is putting in hours of delicate work while discussing Tiger's latest science project (building a time machine. We have warned her, but she's having none of it). I can hear Dig say, That is not the right way to do things, is it? Do not punch your sister. Let us talk about it. Try and be patient. Tell me what your feelings are etc etc etc. None of which is rewarded, because ...

2.30 pm. Tiger punches Shark in the face with a cycle helmet.

2.45 pm. Shark and Tiger are chasing each other round the garden, screaming. This is the sort of screaming that makes your ears bleed and prompts the neighbours to walk past the house slowly, trying to peer inside, clutching the telephone number for Social Services.

3.00 pm. Squirrel is up a tree in the garden refusing to come down.

3.55 pm. Dig gives up from his worthless pursuit of trying reason, careful response, thoughtful and considered reaction. He sighs, sinks into a chair and opens a bottle of wine.

4.30 pm. There is a lot more screaming in the vegetable patch. I say This is my final final final warning. This time I mean it warning.

4.55 pm. Shark bursts through the door, pursued by a snarling Tiger who has claws, literally, springing from her lethal fingers.

5 pm. I shout the words That's It! I've had enough! You are all grounded! For 24 hours!

6.30 pm. Shark, Tiger and Squirrel are in the garden, making mud pies with dandelion tops. Everyone is helping. I can hear Would you like my dandelions? Yes please! Thank you! These are just right! Shall I collect some more for you? Shall I make some more mud? Would you like one scoop or two?

And I am lurking in the office, sour and sulking.