(Un)domestic Goddess

Like all of us I like to try to be consistent and fair with my kids. When I say I'm going to do something, do it, that kind of thing. Problem is I have this annoying tendancy to overpromise and underdeliver in most areas of my life, particularly parenting, and last night was no different.

The preschooler had been begging to make biscuits for days and I'd promised (more bribed actually) on the way to pre-school on Friday that we'd do just that over the weekend.

Great plan. Husband away. Baby weaning and eating at bizarre times. Preschooler struggling with the clocks going forward. Let's bake at 6pm, that'll solve everything.

What was I thinking?

Baby fed, bathed & in bed early.
Preschooler fed healthy snack so as not to fill up on sugar before bed (ahem). Recipes from Annabel Karmel, Faye whatshername (from Cold Feet) & Jamie Oliver all consulted.

Now 6.30pm.

Problem. We don't have any weighing scales or measures. For crying out loud, why don't these people use a universal measure like a CUP or something in their recipes. We're only making biscuits not some michellin starred tulle.

I may have sworn at this point.

Time for a bit of bristol initiative and a cup is engaged in the task. Guestimate quantities of all ingredients, including the butter of which only about 1/3 remains and 2/3 (ish) is required.

Preschooler gorges on anything he can get his hands on and the method part of the recipe is ignored in favour of a more freestylie (Jamie, purlease) approach. It's now 7pm.

Shit, didn't preheat oven.
Oven on. Spoon dollops of mix onto an ungreased tray. Double shit.
Wack in the oven.

Preschooler bribed with a biscuit if he can get ready for bed in 10 minutes.
Preschooler loses focus and decides he needs a poo. Baby decides that now is a good time to have a yell too. Bum wiped. Baby settled. Pyjamas on.

Preschooler can smell something.

SHIT! THE BISCUITS!

Rescue some very interesting looking blackened biscuits out of the now smoking oven. Preschooler burns his finger in the excitement to try one. Both doused in cold water by the dodgy tap. Preschooler needs change of pyjamas. I just need a drink.

Take a sodding (sorry, sodden) biscuit (after scraping off the charred bits) and a glass of milk upstairs.

Preschooler announces, after one bite, that he doesn't like these biscuits nearly as much as as so-and-so's next door and doesn't want any more.

It's now 8pm.

Preschooler's book read, teeth brushed and final pee done in about 3 seconds
and put to bed.

I retire downstairs to a kitchen with no free sideboards, the sink overflowing with used bowls and utensils and the oven still smoking away on the few crumbs that escaped.

Turn oven off. Load the dishwasher with everything. Ignore the rest. Pour a nice cold glass of wine and grab the only bag of crisps I can find (salt free baby ones. wtf?) and retire to the sofa.

Take the first sip and nearly jump out of my skin to the bloody smoke alarm going off. The smoke alarm that hasn't raised the alarm despite almost weekly cooking disasters, indoor fire crackers, incense, candles etc etc. for over a year.
Run to the alarm and attempt to bash it with an umbrella. Futile. Climb onto stool, bash it with hand. Useless. Phone neighbour (Mr Fixit next door) to find he's gone out for the first time in 10 years. Climb back onto stool. Bash it very hard. It shudders but continues to alarm.

I definitely swore at this point.

Find the battery and, with a corkscrew, prize it from the casing.

Peace at last.

Preschooler bellows down the stairs - "what's that noise?". Baby starts to yell.
Settle them both.It's now 9pm. Husband phones to 'see how we've all been'. Put the phone down. Down the rest of the glass of wine and call him back.

Fortunately neither Nigella nor that annoying Ms Dahl were on the telly when I finally switched it on.