THIS week I have been looking after someone else’s children.

By someone else, I mean Beelzebub.

I mean they look like my children and answer to their names, but they are clearly possessed.

On a scale of one-to-horrific, this week has to go down as one of the worst in the history of parenthood. (Ok, maybe others have had worse, but I’m hard-pushed to think of a worse one for me) It started on Tuesday when I collected them from nursery after a long deadline day at work.

Their little faces were all smiley eyes and white-toothed grins when they greeted me at the nursery room door.

Quick collection of bags, coats on and we were out.

But something happened between the door and the car park. Something that can only be described as supernatural. In an instant they both turned demonic.

Sonny kicked-off the tag-team of fury when he realised I was expecting him to get in to the car. Apparently it wreaked havoc with his own plan of a post-nursery game of tig with the traffic.

He was quickly scooped up and belted in to his seat. One down, one to go.

While I had been playing Benny Hill- style chases with little legs, Harrison had been concentrating on much bigger problems. The zip on his jacket just wouldn’t go up.

I offered to help, but him being four and all means he can do everything himself. The only problem with that is, he can’t.

Refusing to get into the car until your zip is done up is problematic in the game of getting home, but refusing to let your fully-qualified zip-puller mother help you, means it’s nigh on impossible.

So I went in for the scoop-up. He’s bigger than Sonny and more able in the skill of resisting so he managed to escape my grasp and threw himself to the ground.

At this point I enlisted the tried and tested method of obedience - reverse psychology.

Taking his hand I pulled him up and told him he would have to go back into nursery. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He went seriously rogue.

He flipped and wriggled and wrestled so much I ended up twisting my ankle and tripping over myself.

Two crying children, one swollen ankle and one seriously frazzled mamma later we were all friends and bedtime was upon us.

But the tensions were far from over. Fresh from their slumber, my little darlings had more up their snotty little sleeves on Wednesday.

This time not in the form of mother take-downs(praise-be for small mercies). No, this time they turned on each other.

The first incident was a Lego death match. Despite having what must be the world’s largest Duplo Lego collection, both Harrison and Sonny decided it was a matter of extreme importance that each should hold in their hand the same yellow square brick.

A squabble broke out and after much snatching and grabbing it came down to hand-to-hand combat. After a quick scan of the Lego-covered floor, I stepped in to mildly point out to both ‘silly-Billys’ that there were at least 11 identical bricks at arms length. It made not a jot of difference. They both insisted (by now through tear-streaked, hysterical faces) that they NEEDED that specific one (they didn’t). As the peace talks had proven futile I took the brick from the conjoined, tensed-up fist, picked up another, put them behind my back, mixed them up, and handed them each back a yellow brick.

They eyed them curiously, then each took one and went back to playing in harmony, while I retired to the bathroom, closed the door and swore in my loudest shouty whisper.

A similar battle broke out the following day. This time the object of their mutual desire was a breadstick. Sonny got the first one out the box which, apparently spelled utter catastrophe for Harrison who demanded that he should have it. I offered him an identical - <em>IDENTICAL</em> - breadstick (we’ll call that number two) but it simply would not suffice, it was number one or nothing.

So nothing it was.

After three days of bickering, tantruming, whinging and whining I snapped, or rather the breadstick got snapped and propelled into the bin and his devastation - and my title of world’s worst mum - was complete. He stood and wailed the loss of his wasted snack and I stood in the kitchen and daydreamed of repeatedly battering my face off the worktops.

Minutes later they were as chummy as two chums from chumsville. Sonny halved his breadstick and gleefully shared with his big brother and I was bombed out for being big bad mum.

Wine, anyone?

THIS week I have been looking after someone else’s children.

By someone else, I mean Beelzebub.

I mean they look like my children and answer to their names, but they are clearly possessed.

On a scale of one-to-horrific, this week has to go down as one of the worst in the history of parenthood. (Ok, maybe others have had worse, but I’m hard-pushed to think of a worse one for me) It started on Tuesday when I collected them from nursery after a long deadline day at work.

Their little faces were all smiley eyes and white-toothed grins when they greeted me at the nursery room door.

Quick collection of bags, coats on and we were out.

But something happened between the door and the car park. Something that can only be described as supernatural. In an instant they both turned demonic.

Sonny kicked-off the tag-team of fury when he realised I was expecting him to get in to the car. Apparently it wreaked havoc with his own plan of a post-nursery game of tig with the traffic.

He was quickly scooped up and belted in to his seat. One down, one to go.

While I had been playing Benny Hill- style chases with little legs, Harrison had been concentrating on much bigger problems. The zip on his jacket just wouldn’t go up.

I offered to help, but him being four and all means he can do everything himself. The only problem with that is, he can’t.

Refusing to get into the car until your zip is done up is problematic in the game of getting home, but refusing to let your fully-qualified zip-puller mother help you, means it’s nigh on impossible.

So I went in for the scoop-up. He’s bigger than Sonny and more able in the skill of resisting so he managed to escape my grasp and threw himself to the ground.

At this point I enlisted the tried and tested method of obedience - reverse psychology.

Taking his hand I pulled him up and told him he would have to go back into nursery. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He went seriously rogue.

He flipped and wriggled and wrestled so much I ended up twisting my ankle and tripping over myself.

Two crying children, one swollen ankle and one seriously frazzled mamma later we were all friends and bedtime was upon us.

But the tensions were far from over. Fresh from their slumber, my little darlings had more up their snotty little sleeves on Wednesday.

This time not in the form of mother take-downs(praise-be for small mercies). No, this time they turned on each other.

The first incident was a Lego death match. Despite having what must be the world’s largest Duplo Lego collection, both Harrison and Sonny decided it was a matter of extreme importance that each should hold in their hand the same yellow square brick.

A squabble broke out and after much snatching and grabbing it came down to hand-to-hand combat. After a quick scan of the Lego-covered floor, I stepped in to mildly point out to both ‘silly-Billys’ that there were at least 11 identical bricks at arms length. It made not a jot of difference. They both insisted (by now through tear-streaked, hysterical faces) that they NEEDED that specific one (they didn’t). As the peace talks had proven futile I took the brick from the conjoined, tensed-up fist, picked up another, put them behind my back, mixed them up, and handed them each back a yellow brick.

They eyed them curiously, then each took one and went back to playing in harmony, while I retired to the bathroom, closed the door and swore in my loudest shouty whisper.

A similar battle broke out the following day. This time the object of their mutual desire was a breadstick. Sonny got the first one out the box which, apparently spelled utter catastrophe for Harrison who demanded that he should have it. I offered him an identical - <em>IDENTICAL</em> - breadstick (we’ll call that number two) but it simply would not suffice, it was number one or nothing.

So nothing it was.

After three days of bickering, tantruming, whinging and whining I snapped, or rather the breadstick got snapped and propelled into the bin and his devastation - and my title of world’s worst mum - was complete. He stood and wailed the loss of his wasted snack and I stood in the kitchen and daydreamed of repeatedly battering my face off the worktops.

Minutes later they were as chummy as two chums from chumsville. Sonny halved his breadstick and gleefully shared with his big brother and I was bombed out for being big bad mum.

Wine, anyone?