No 4 gave it his all with an hour-long crying tantrum about not being lifted onto his stool to eat. During this eternal hour Nos. 2 and 3 decided to add their tuppence worth about my parenting skills with annoying frequency. No 4's food nearly ended up in the bin a number of times, but the screams from the other 3 children were too intense to ignore (it was pasta, their favourite). The poor man who was fixing our windows didn't quite know where to look and I kept apologising, feeling his embarrassment and mine. Meanwhile No 1's embarrassment was even more intense and he could do nothing but resort to rolling his eyes and tutting about his awful family.
Just as No 4 decided suddenly that enough was enough and he would be good, No 3 spilt her full cup of milk EVERYWHERE but in particular all over No 4's now cold plateful of pasta. Deep breaths I told myself, it's all ok. No point crying over spilt milk, eh? No, that idiom wasn't remotely funny when used literally tonight. I told No 3 (through gritted teeth) it was fine, just an accident. And when No 4 started bawling again at the sight of his milk-sodden pasta, I was so not wanting to sing "Always Look on the Bright Side". So I didn't, but No 1 did!
We seem to be on the other side of the Witching Hour now, having endured a few more choice moments that will have to wait to be relayed another time. Because I'm enjoying a lovely lovely glass of wine now and the children are going to BED!