Where does it all go wrong?

And so I find myself once again alone with the girls at the weekend.  Things start off okay, as well as they can when you've been up on and off all night with one child or the other and a 5.45am start to the day. All days start at 5.30 - 6am in our house, this is not unusual. It's just a bit brutal at the weekend, but the girls don't differentiate. I have a bunny clock on order, his ears pop up when it's morning. I'm hoping this will work or I may well be blogging from an institution in a few weeks time. 

We went first to our local National Trust house. The garden is fun for them and they sell ice cream and tea. What more could you want? But it was closed.  I suppose the rest of the world doesn't need places to open so early at weekends. Just me. So failing that we went to the garden centre. It's normally a safe bet; see the fish, look at the pretty flowers, have a cup of tea/hot chocolate, cake, marshmallows. Everyone's happy. And everyone was happy. For a while. 

We looked at the flowers, I turned a blind eye to the ones being 'deadheaded' by Tilly (they weren't dead) and became temporarily deaf to the tuts of the lady who worked there not to mention those of the other people (without small children) who were looking at pansies for their neat beds. 

The girls were having fun. Until we discovered the shed department.  I've never taken them there before. Somehow amongst the fish and the flowers and cafe we just miss it.  But not today. Today I thought it'd be fun for them to play in the sheds and of course it was. In particular the children's playhouse display.  Eliza played happily for a while then understood it was time to go. But Tilly didn't really get that part. She was having fun running up and down the stairs in 'her' house. Why on earth would she want to leave? Why indeed. 

It started as gentle protest, then shouting then crying and finally full flat on the floor tantrum that would wake the dead.  I had to climb up the teeny tiny Pontipine steps in the playhouse, retrieve my daughter and hobble down again. All while she kicked and screamed and caused all the people happily milling around the garden centre to stare at this spectacularly inadequate mother manhandling her child.  Eliza patiently walked along beside me carrying Tilly's coat (that naturally she had refused to wear).  We walked past a big group of what appeared to be new mums and dads all introducing each other to their new babies, no doubt thinking "goodness what a dreadful mother, we'll never be like that" (I know, I was like that once). And finally into the car, strapping her into the carseat while her screams could be heard for miles around. Trying not to cry myself at the sight of her blotchy little face. It was actually pretty awful. 

And here we are at a home, she's curled up on the sofa "being a cat" drinking milk and watching CBeebies.  Eliza is playing a game involving drawing a map and putting it in her 'Ruktuk' (thanks Dora the Explorer).  I spoke too soon, Tilly's climbed off the sofa and is heading toward me.  My 5 minutes peace has come to an end.