Today has not gone smoothly.
It could have something to do with the stunt Madam pulled on the way up the street to the chiropractor's office. Having strapped on her brother, grabbed my bag and coffee and (lastly, of course) freed her from the carseat, she decided walking wasn't something she chose to do right that second. Given the fact that we'd been stuck in rush hour traffic on the way there and had roughly thirty seconds to make our appointment, that wasn't really an option. I appealed to her logical side, reminding her that she likes going to see Gail, Gail lets her play with the bits on her desk while she waits for New Kid and myself to be adjusted... her response to said logic? Spaghetti Baby. On the street. I had to put my coffee on a stranger's car to secure New Kid to my front with one hand while I used the other to haul her butt off the pavement. Upon second collapse, I had to wrestle her under my "free" arm, collect my belongings and walk at speed with her flailing away while pedestrians tried to decide if I was abducting her.
It could have something to do with the fact that we repeated the performance, minus the coffee, on the way back to the car.
Or it could have something to do with the fact that she threw what was most likely the most epic tantrum H&M staff have ever seen. Picture this... baby resting peacefully in the pushchair, angelic looking blonde child looking at clothes and exclaiming "pitty!" at random intervals. That's about the time said angelic looking blonde child decided to have a rifle through my bag. Now, in my bag are various bits that a child shouldn't get her hands on. Like the bribery sweets I pack just in case. Or the foot long knitting needles I just bought in the hopes that some day, in the distant future, I will have a time during which both hands are free. Kids don't look so angelic wielding a pair of foot long spikes, blonde curls notwithstanding. So I said the "n" word. ("No". I don't use that other word, and shame on you for thinking it.)
You would think I had slapped her in the face while I stabbed a puppy repeatedly with those knitting needles from before.
Our world erupted. Shrieks, flailing limbs, madness. I thanked my lucky stars that I'd grabbed the carrier as we left the house on the off chance that she might get tired and want to ride instead of walk, strapped on New Kid and proceeded to (YET AGAIN) prove my agility at wrestling with one kid while wearing another. I managed to get her off the floor and into/onto the pushchair. Now came forcing the plank she'd become to morph back into a child that bends in the middle. Having finally managed that and forcibly restraining her with the pushchair straps, I then embarked upon the Walk of Shame to the tills, because I tell you what, after all that I was having those bloody t-shirts. Of course, the whole way there she's shrieking at the top of her lungs, which has now finally upset her brother to the point that he's begun to wail as well. Stereo, and not the good kind. About the time we make it to the queue, she's coughing to the point that she's gagging. All I can think is "she ate tuna for lunch...!" In (fairly) hushed tones, I inform her that if she throws up, I'll knock her head off. I'm pretty sure the guy in front of us heard me, because he let me go in front of him, which if you've ever been to London you'll know just doesn't happen. I paid, and we went home. She hiccupped most of the way back to the house, looking teary and pathetic, causing strangers to make sympathetic faces and noises at her. I wished I'd recorded it to show them.
She *might* live to see her second birthday on Friday. I make no promises.