Crazy day and swimming lessons this evening.
(For the record, “fart” was the word of the moment.)
Monkey Boy informs me “Oh … a note ….”
This really doesn’t tell me much, but he elaborates by explaining “I need to be at school at 8.30 tomorrow morning, and can you come to the play?”
“Erm …” indicating he may need to elucidate a little more.
Also, I have to drop his little brother off at the same time, some ten minutes further along.
He clarifies all he is explaining to me with “Ok, drop me off at eight then.”
I refrain from snorting and saying “Pfft, good luck with that.”
Instead, I explain, clearly, to him that if this is the case, they are to immediately ready themselves for bed upon our return home from swimming lessons, eat the dinner I will be cooking during this bed-readiness phase and then immediately go to bed.
I explain this, further, to the other two.
Everyone is clear.
Except, possibly, the four year old who said “I know a dumb way to die. Cut your dinner wif your finger and eat your finger. Yeah. That’s a good dumb way to die!”
Anyhoo, I believe “get ready for bed” was uttered, yelled and otherwise articulated in a variety of formats and voice volumes during the fifteen odd minutes it took to prepare dinner.
Once it had been shovelled down and I prevented them from devouring the remainder I had left for their father by fending them off with a silicon spatula and some tongs, I commenced the “go to bed” chant.
What I adore about this is you can extend your vocal range as much as you wish, and can experiment and add variety by implementing a range of tones and moods to the “Get into bed, NOW!” crescendo.
They do … or so they like to think they have fooled me into doing.
Approximately seven seconds after they walked through the door to their bedrooms, I wander in to say goodnight. Monkey Boy’s bed is empty and he and Godzilla are playing with the iPod, forbidden on school nights and especially forbidden when someone wants to be at school by 8.00a.m.
I calmly, quietly stand in the doorway.
“Quick, mum’s just there,” Godzilla mutters in what he thinks is quietly, under his breath and can only be heard by Monkey Boy.
They both react so quickly it’s almost funny.
Actually, it is pretty funny, cos they stood on all the crap that is laying around Godzilla’s floor, that I’ve been asking him to tidy up for weeks now. And someone banged a knee.
“You’re not stupid are you, Mum,” says Monkey Boy, more a statement than a question.
“You got it,” I confirm.
Although it was years ago, it hardly seems more than yesterday that he’d crawled up behind me on the couch and started mussing with my hair.
“Are you giving me a massage?” I ask.
“No,” he replied. “I’m just looking for the eyes you have back here. How can you see