Learning to savour the terrier fights

It feels criminal waking a sleeping dwarf at 6.15am on a cold, dark morning. And on Monday we had to peel off two warm duvets. Rashimi snatched his duvet and shot back underneath it like a crotchety snail. Then he poked his head out and asked: 'Can I wear my thpiderman suit to nurthery today?' (Thank you, Gran Gran - it's still as popular as ever). Having been lured to the breakfast table with some hot chocolate, Spiderman was forgotten and by 7.15 we were all in the car cruising through the ultra orthodox district of Mea Sherim with boys the dwarf's age heading to school themselves, their little yarmulka caps perched above the swinging 'peot' - side locks. 'There can't be many school runs like this,' J said. The sun was creeping above the golden Dome of the Rock, bathing the Old City in a watery glow. The dwarfs requested their favourite song 'Me and Julio in the schoolyard' and Rashimi told the Lozenge to stop singing as he was 'wuining the muthic.'

The Lozenge hurtled into the playground peeling off his parka and skipping towards the sweet little familiar faces - Palestinian, Danish, French, Swedish, Scottish, Austrian...Rashimi hovered around our legs, sussing out the scene. We took him into his classroom - a light and colourful space with corners for every activity you could imagine. Rashimi headed straight to the toy microwave and concocted breakfast for us with some plastic fruit. Then we overheard him explaining detailed vignettes from James and the Giant Peach to his Israeli teacher: 'And the aunties were not nithe to Jameth. And the peatth gwew huuuuuuuge and it FLEW over the thea with the ladybird, and there wath a thpider too!' The teacher looked a little bit blank and I wondered if Roald Dahl has yet to be translated into Hebrew.

We had to peel him off us as we tried to leave, but apparently the crying lasted for only a few minutes, and when St Grace and I went to collect him at 11.30am we saw him through the doorway happily playing in the sand with some other little nuggets his size. One Kenyan, one Dutch, one Italian/Argentinian and one Palestinian. 'He's very chatty,' said the teachers. I hadn't warned them that he's louder than the ramadan cannon. 'But it's very useful because he can tell us everything he needs.'

The Lozenge has requested to go and visit Rashimi every break time as they have separate playgrounds to avoid the squashing of the smaller fry.

The Lozenge appeared back home and stepped off the bus in tears, as he'd been expecting Rashimi to travel home with him. There is some fraternal loyalty and pride there, but within 5 minutes they were furiously fighting like a couple of shaggy terriers. Upturned toy boxes, lost glue lids, fluffy balls and pipe cleaners scattered on the kitchen floor, discarded coats and shoes and a ragged looking me. For every hop and a skip you get a thump and a bump. The peace of the morning home alone a shattered memory, by 4pm I was scratching my head wondering which parenting self-help book to reach for. I need a pocket water pistol to break up the fights, and a voice control that turns my yell to a yodel. No one prepares you for this bit, do they?  I always thought I'd never be one of those bedraggled and snappy looking Mums. But after the dwarves had inhaled some hastily prepared mince and mashed potatoes with huge chunks of vegetables that I barely had time to dice in the mayhem, calm was restored to the homestead and the next scene cut to the two of them in a loving clinch in a bubbly bath. They're like a disfunctional married couple at times.

But at least, in the peace of the morning I can shift some work and earn my place on the planet which provides equilibrium to the day and counteracts the dwarf demolition zone between 3 and 5pm.

And yesterday I joined a full to bursting St George's Cathedral for the tragic funeral of a fellow Mum at the school who lost her fight to cancer last Friday. Her husband gave a brave and heart rending eulogy and her children gracefully held their 9 and 7 year old composures as they bid farewell to their beautiful guiding light. A moment to preserve, and one to carry to chaotic kitchens after school, and other trying moments you can easily belittle. This is it. We need to chew it - even the bitter and tasteless bits. It's all there is. But why is it so easy to forget and why does a 43 year old woman have to die to jolt us into realisation?