Julie Jay: The years go fast, but some days I can't help but wish they hurried up a bit

As much as we love our kids, we all have days which have us pushed to the brink of sanity. Today was one of those days

Julie Jay: "We rounded off the day with the boys breaking numerous eggs and pouring milk all over the floor."

Today was one of my toughest days as a parent. The writing was already on the wall when the baby woke up before 6am. 

This came at the tail end of a series of lively nights when he has been waking ready to live his best life at 3am and 4am. 

He is the tiny reincarnation of Graham Norton’s priest in Father Ted, whose boundless energy kept his fellow caravan sleepers suitably demented until the wee hours.

The broken sleep has been coupled with some very early mornings, which suits my tiny raver fine, given he gets to enjoy a midday nap, but, sadly for mammy, the days of sleeping when the baby sleeps are over and this is now my time to do thrilling things, like get a wash folded in record time and scrub the latest Banksy graffiti off the walls. 

As ever today, we got Number One to náionara and the baby got his nap in, and all was going swimmingly, until the universe decided to push me to the edge of sanity.

Things started to go awry swiftly following the baby’s nap. 

Realising I had very little in for lunch and dinner, I made the rookie, but unavoidable, error of ‘popping’ into the shop with the children to procure staples, only to leave with an ice-cream the size of Number One’s head, which he started scoffing immediately, because self-control is for Scandinavians. 

I cooked the chicken pasta I had planned anyway, because God loves a trier, and, thankfully, what Number One refuses the baby will hoover up quicker than you can say ‘Don’t mind BMI’. 

Next, we attempted ‘gardening,’ which consisted of the baby overturning some bulbs I had planted and Number One drenching himself, and anyone in the vicinity (me), with the garden tap. My calls to stand down until I at least had their wellies on fell on tiny, willfully deaf ears.

When getting the baby changed out of his sopping outfit, I heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the kitchen, as Number One had felt there was no time to wait for a yoghurt and helped himself, knocking over a ginormous jar of pickles.

Just as I was googling ways to rid your kitchen of the smell of brine, I turned around to see that Number Two, despite his tiny stature, had overturned the compost bin, so my floor is now basically a deconstructed Buddha bowl. 

As I attempted to clear up this monstrosity, I heard what appeared to be a splash from a fire hydrant on the streets of Harlem, but when I investigated, it was my firstborn, who has snuck back outside and is once again soaking himself.

At this point, I was categorically fuming with Number One, who has gone from my Number One cheerleader to my Number One nemesis in the space of the afternoon. 

He objected to stepping away from the tap, but I managed to coax him with threats of ringing Nana and tattling on his bad behaviour.

Julie Jay: "I fell into bed knowing that tomorrow probably won’t be so bad, such is the rhythm of things. People often tell me that when the children are small, the years will fly by. That if we blink, we will miss it. And I’m sure that’s true, but on days like today, I wouldn’t mind if they hurried up a bit."

Marching him in, I proceeded to change him again, before realising that while I was negotiating a peace deal outside, I missed the postman calling, and I had to bring the two to the post office to retrieve a mysterious parcel for Daddy.

The post-office trip is thankfully made more interesting by Number One, who refuses to stay by my side. We managed to knock over and put back an array of items, before procuring Daddy’s parcel, which, it would appear, is sadly not an au pair or anything that will actively help Mammy in the short term.

It was only when we got home from our excursion that I realised that Number One’s trainers were on the wrong feet and Number Two wasn’t wearing any shoes at all. 

But the real crime against footwear was committed by me, as I realised I was after going out in public with my private penchant for thick woolly socks under Birkenstocks. My status as local siren is really out the window now.

We rounded off the day with the boys breaking numerous eggs and pouring milk all over the kitchen floor, which now resembles an abattoir.

I muttered numerous expletives under my breath and finally convinced them to go to bed by allowing them each to bring a roll of parchment paper (don’t ask) and three breadsticks upstairs with them. A clear sign that mammy has officially given up.

I fell asleep immediately, fully clothed, after the children had gone to bed, and woke to a clatter downstairs. Landing in to the kitchen, I saw Number One had again attempted a batch mix of pancakes for the following morning.

Once he was back in bed, I returned to clean up the mess and, to avenge the absence of my husband, who wasn’t present at all during this day from hell, I used one of his favourite t-shirts to clear up the egg. 

This cheered me up immeasurably, until I remembered he isn’t home for another three days, so I will be washing this myself. Another reminder, as if we needed one, that violence doesn’t win.

I fell into bed knowing that tomorrow probably won’t be so bad, such is the rhythm of things. 

People often tell me that when the children are small, the years will fly by. That if we blink, we will miss it. 

And I’m sure that’s true, but on days like today, I wouldn’t mind if they hurried up a bit.