Did I say my son’s birthday is over. I was wrong. I had forgotten until being reminded by my son that I had arranged a bowling afternoon with a couple of his friends. Conveniently my husband had double booked to go into London with my father to do lots of fun things. So begging my babysitter to come, I ventured off to the bowling alley. Bowling alley? I think you mean war zone with the children as the enemy and the allies a group of tired, stressed out parents using money as weapons and sugar as a peace treaty.
When the bowling was over and my babysitter who had been running after my youngest for two hours it was time to head home.
We both cried in the car from exhaustion and the sad causalities of war we saw in the bowling complex.
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