OK, so with the Frog in France for five days, it's been me and the spud on one relentless Mummy-potato marathon.
Our first day without the Frog was reasonably normal. I picked the spud up from nursery along with a friend of his whose parents were working late and we had dinner together until her Mum arrived. All well and good. Bedtime: 9pm
Friday I, perhaps ill-advisedly, took the spud along to see the Sacred Made Real exhibition at the National Gallery, starting off with a two and a half hour meeting in the cafe. He was amazing, an angel. He played quietly while I nattered on and then he wandered around the exhibition marvelling at the statues and complaining a lot that Christ was 'hurt'. We then arrived home just as my wonderful friend and her son Einstein pitched up to our door for a sleepover. Chaos. Bedtime: 10:00pm
Saturday we went to my godson's first birthday, following which I dropped the spud off at his girlfriend's house for a sleepover while I went out on the lash with my mates. I got a text at 10:30pm - bedtime.
Sunday, I suffered. I really, really suffered. We did however make it to another friend's house for a Yule party with loads of kids. Everyone was late, the kids ate everythings (and one of them threw up to prove it) and by the time we got home he was so overexcited that I had to put him into a bath with me and we both went to bed at bedtime: 10pm.
Today we took the day off and went to Selfridges to see Santa, an event the spud reacted to by burying his head in my shoulder and whispering that he apparently wants 'a yellow car' for Christmas, then crying until we left the poor man's house. We then went to Winter Wonderland and walked a million miles, then came home and collapsed. The spud begged to lie down on the sofa and watch Shrek so that's what he did. Bedtime: 9pm.
The frog comes back tomorrow. I need a holiday...