My sister came to visit a couple of years ago.  

My sister lives on the other side of the world. She looks sort of like me but different. Mostly because she has that fresh, wrinkle-free complexion that comes from being childless.

My sister, as you will imagine, has a wardrobe full of clothes and none of them ever have food stains or dribble on them (unless, presumably, she had an extra specially rowdy night out). She wears heels whenever she feels like it. She has a lie in on Sundays, except when she has planned to go horse-riding. My sister does exotic-sounding things I vaguely remember through the distant mists of time, things like “brunch” and “day at the spa”. I think she may even do “manicure”. 

She was great with the kids and then left saying that experiencing our family life was “the best contraceptive”.

Yet when she went we were a family of four. All was relatively calm and ordered around our house. Neither of the kids were really talking yet. They did cute things like go out and play in the yard together for half an hour at a stretch without even poking their nose in the door. 

Now we are five. My poor sister had no idea. 

Three children in six years makes for a barrel-load of noise.

All three spend all day Talking. Commenting. Requesting. Stating. Correcting. Pleading. Asking. Whining. Arguing. Yelling. Screaming. Shrieking. Shouting. Banging. Bashing. Tapping. Noisy-button-pushing. Teasing. Throwing. Debating. Laughing. Cackling. Snorting. Stomping. Wailing… 

Ha!

You thought I was going to carry on something like this: …Cuddling. Playing. Kissing. Snuggling. Listening. Venturing. Obliging. Complimenting. Helping… 

But I am not. That would be way too predictable. After all, this is not a womens’ magazine, this is my blog. Mine, geddit? I can do with it as I please. And after living through the chaos that was this afternoon, I am feeling extra-specially curmudgeonly. 

That’s all.