Flower Tots

I left the munchkins this morning all ready for a full day of gardening in the sunshine with Ana. It was a perfect picture postcard scene, both darlings wearing sweet little Wellington boots, gardening gloves, aprons, little primary coloured watering cans and trowels. They stood smiling amongst the flower pots freshly decanted from the greenhouse by our wonderful gardener - tomato, strawberry, carrot, leek and sunflower seedlings, all lined up next to fleshly turned soil. The cherubs looked so very sweet with their sun hats on, their little noses and cheeks smeared with opaque white sun block.

"Oh mummy, can't you stay with us? Must you work?" they begged.

I am only too aware of the hell that this idyllic picture can prove to be in reality. Pushing and shoving, earth and compost in the sandpit, watering cans being emptied into each others boots, crying, tantrums, plant food and seedlings trampled into the ground and the consumption of garden snails.

No doubt by the time I return this evening, they will be mud wrestling on the trampoline, and the bird feeder will be full of freshly dug earthworms, the water butt empty and not a towel in the house dry. Thank God for the number 3 bus, and the place of safety that is my full-time employment.

The cherubs are very sweet, and I must admit - rather better behaved than many of their little chums, but why do they never listen to me when I speak to them, or ask them to put something down?

"No don't throw that, please come out of there, take that out of your nose" etc?

I often feel as though I am going to lose my tiny mind at the weekend, disrespected, abused and menial, in attendance only to serve them juice or chopped apple - "NO WITH THE SKIN OFF", or yoghurt, "strawberry yoghurt - IT HAS TO BE STRAWBERRY, I want some right now" etc, they yell.

I am frantically trying to concentrate on the positive things they do, ignoring the negative, distracting them from murderous acts and tantrums as per the parenting manuals. It will be entirely my fault if they suffer from low self esteem later in life. It is exhausting, where will it ever end?

I flee the house to work each Monday morning feeling an enormous sense of failure, a heavy weight on my shoulders. I have resorted to shouting and the naughty step yet again. Naughty mummy...

My work colleagues are far less demanding than these delightful children, they are substantially easier to please and generally don't shriek at me. I feel quite overwhelmed by panic at home.

Am I the only woman in the world who is this bad at being a mother?

Chablis or Pinot Grigio?