If the adage is true, Blake and Noah are on the verge of turning into fish fingers and oven chips. To say that I've fed them this for every meal for the past week would be untrue, but to say that I've served it a little more regularly than I'd like to have would be an understatement. I keep imagining a scene where I go to pick them up at nursery and out emerges Noah, all pale and coated in bread crumbs, followed soon after by the taller, more slender Blake as a fried potato stick.
I have had a pretty exciting couple of weeks working on my self-titled project, Bringing Order to the Chaos of our Life. Namely I have been doing a lot (a lot!) of de-cluttering our house, which has made my spirits soar. I am about one load away from seeing the bottoms of all our laundry baskets, not an unremarkable feat for someone who has suffered from a lifetime inability to beat the piles of dirty laundry that just seem to be never-ending. We even achieved a minor miracle by sorting through all of Blake's and Noah's toys and taking the unused ones up to the loft (not sure what will happen next for them, but still, they're not crowding the actually-used toys).
With my improved mood, I have been settling into my new job, Chief Peacekeeper of the SouthEast London branch of the United Nations. Blake and Noah love each other one minute, and seemingly despise each other the next, so I've done a lot of separating them before someone gets legitimately hurt. It has been rather tiring. And has, subsequently, not left me a lot of time for creative and healthy menu-planning. If you should see a mini fish finger and a not-much-bigger french fry strolling the streets, could you send them home please? It's past their dinnertime.