I love my children but I don't always like them.
I don't like them when I have to share a bathroom with them, it's bad enough sharing with their father. You know the problem: loo seats always left up, an inability to use the flushing mechanism, leaks on the floor and my worst favourite leaving the loo seat down and then you sitting on it thinking it's OK only to find yourself sitting on something distinctly wet.
Boys just don't get it at all! I bet if they had to sit down to go to the loo then it would be a completely different kettle of fish.
But the one thing that drives me to distraction is when I need to go to the loo and they insist on interrupting me. Going to the loo is a sacred ritual it takes time it is a place where one should be able to contemplate the world in safety, in privacy and NOT have to respond with undignified haste to screams and blood curdling shouts from ones off spring.
When they were smaller they would frequently accompany me to the loo and would bang pitifully on the door if I shut it until I responded by telling them what was going on.
"Go away. I'm on the loo!"
"Yes, but what are you doing?"
"None of your business!"
Now that they are older I expect nay silently demand with a raised eyebrow that brooks no crossing that I'm left in peace with my ablutions.
But they still haven't got the picture.
I have managed to contain the boys they are playing happily together, the dogs are fed and sleeping it off no one is expected to arrive at the house and I am in need of a quiet sit down in peace and quiet. I am positively looking forward to a contemplation with The Week magazine. Sheer bliss.
Then suddenly the door bursts open and I am caught in the middle of a poo.
"Mummy guess what!"
I cannot guess I am in the middle of a huge movement I don't want to guess I just want top get on - on my own and in privacy.
"No," I say weakly, "what?"
"I've just got a legend in Pokemon White..."
There are times I think it would be a very good idea to get my boys telephones so they could just tweet me the news.