And then there weren’t 3.

To clarify there is no baby in there. Nor are there plans for a baby to be in there. Even more unlikely if the method of Rowdy’s tenuous grasp of human reproduction is followed: “like penguins feeding each other. Only with spit not food.”

This would have been enough in itself but it came after Rowdy casually lifted my jumper the week before, frowned for inspection and asserted, “Mum, you should really go for a run.”

Not “Hey, Mum, you’re making that porridge-belly look rock” or “Oh, the site of my incubation! Sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll back-pay rent” but the child equivalent of Burgess Meredith in Rocky.

Complete with stop-watch.

And clipboard.

And an irritated mood conveyed merely by the ‘tic-tic‘ of a ballpoint pen release.

Cobbed out.

Me: “Want sweetcorn?”

The Bobcat: “Sweetcorn is my enemy.”

Me: “Really? You normally hoover it up.”

The Bobcat: “TOMORROW I liked sweetcorn. THIS day…..sweetcorn….is….my…ENEMY!”

Me: “Thanks for clarifying.” [Replaces glasses.]

The Bobcat: “oooooOOoohh. GRaaaavyyy. SWIM, PEAS! SWIM!”

Elephant ears.

Poorly Rowdy: “I’m keeping my hand warm.”

Me: “I noticed. You’re keeping it warm with my ear.”

Rowdy: “Yes.”

Me: “Perhaps we should get you an elephant. That way you could keep your hands warm with their BIG ears.”

Rowdy: “You’ve got big ears.”
Cancel the elephant. It’s been deemed surplus to requirements.

The Sock Scoffer

One of Rowdy’s recent school projects has been to design a monster that she would see if she were in ‘Where the Wild Things Are’. Luckily we have a second-hand copy.* 

However, given that Mummy has a new toy (IPad) and that Mummy/daughter bonding time is often over scribbling and sketching the exercise developed from self-directed creativity into directing Mummy.

“No. There not there.” 

“That should be pink. Not that kind of pink.”  

“You’ve done that wrong.”

Quality bonding time.

She will be doing her own interpretation by hand. When she’s stopped being distracted by her new shiny ‘not-for-outdoors’ shoes which she keeps trying to sneak into the garden.

*The Sock Scoffer has also been inspired by our stupendous friend, author, gin-appreciater and child entertainer, Sue. One of those folk that make the world a bit brighter.

British Summer Time

I don’t know the person who sets British Summer Time.

What I do know is that they don’t like their mum.

0605hrs is when this happened this morning.

Thoughtful? Yes. Punctual? Yes. Achieved maximum impact? Yes…but not in the way idealised by Clinton Cards. I don’t object to Mothering Sunday. In fact, seeing Rowdy & The Bobcat’s excited little faces (in extreme and unnecessary close-up) in presenting their school and preschool gifts respectively actually lends weight to the argument for keeping it. (Rowdy, in particular has come on leaps and bounds since arriving home with a brown paper bag containing a cereal bar with the sellotaped label ‘Breakfast in Bed’. Before sitting down and scoffing it right in front of me.) 

The one day where media (in general) supports mums nationwide in having vast amounts of chocolate just because AND an extra bit of kip and BST scuppers it good and proper.

Add to this that I was then barricaded from the kitchen while their creativity was spontaneously retriggered into more gift preparation (what mum does not favour a glue&feather parrot mask? TWO parrot masks? Bring it on). 

THREE HOURS they were in there. Their dad tried to lob tea and biscuits in my general direction to placate the beast (the PMT, carb-deficient, early-roused beast) but to no avail. The cry of “Just 5 more minutes, Mummy!” didn’t offer any consolation either as their grasp of the concept of time runs roughly parallel with their grasp of the concept of where cows magically turn into beef burgers.

Bedtime should be oddles of fun.