Bibbetty, Bobbetty, Boo

I have been reading lots of splendido blog posts (courtesy of KateTakesFive) recently in which parental fairy godmothers (and fathers) conjure up their five top wishes for their children. 

My main wish for mine at the moment is for them to go back to school. We have spent four solid weeks in one another’s company, and I dare say they are just as much in need of a break as I am. I am sure that whoever invented Easter didn’t mean it to last for over a month. 

But if imagine it’s already Wednesday and they are safely incarcerated again, what would I wish for them in adulthood?

 

1. To live near to a John Lewis store. Our nearest one is 40 miles away, and it is no fun. 

2a. To marry a rich man (daughter). I would like to spare her the trauma of having children and washing endless pants whilst simultaneously trying to earn a living. Failing that, I would like her to save us all some money and become a vet.

2b. To marry an organised woman (son). Without a well-organised wife, he will forget that people do things like get dressed before leaving the house. 

3. To live in a house that is not a DIY-renovation project (the rich husband could come in handy here). Though I’m not sure they would know what to do in a house where they didn’t have to pick their way through rubble-sacks.

4. Never to emigrate Down South.

5. To have at least four children each. Because – despite excessive Easter holiday fatigue – nothing beats having children. And if all else fails, children are a good excuse to buy Mini Boden clothes.

The Facts of Life

My guinea pigs have decided that spring has sprung.

I know this because they have spent the entire day waggling their bottoms and growling at one another. Oh, and they’ve also been trying to hump one another’s heads.

As a good mother, I have decided that this is the perfect opportunity to enlighten the children about the birds and the bees (and the piggies).

As they (the children, that is) are nearly 10 and nearly 8, some might think that I should have done this already.

I have tried, honest: I bought a How Babies Are Made book and left it oh-so-casually lying around on the kitchen table. It was ignored, so I left it oh-so-casually on the bathroom floor. I’m not sure the captive audience was captivated.

So when my daughter finally asked why the guinea pigs were playing piggy-back, I seized the moment. They’re not playing piggy-back, I explained. It’s the time of year when want to start making baby guinea pigs, and they’re feeling frustrated because they haven’t got a girl guinea pig to make them with.

“Are they gay?” my son asked (thanks to the older boys, ‘gay’ is the talk of the playground).

No, I replied. Guinea pigs can’t really be gay.

“Why not?”

This is not going quite the way I’d planned.

“Well, I don’t really know. Anyway, they’re brothers.”

As if that explained everything.

I congratulated myself for having enlightened the children without causing undue excitement as they sloped off to the trampoline.

But what is this? They weren’t heading for the trampoline after all. They were heading for Daddy’s Workshop.

“Daddy, Daddy, guess what? The guinea pigs are standing up and fighting, and MUMMY SAYS THEY’RE HAVING SEX.”

I fear I still have some explaining to do.

Melting Moments

When my seven-year-old daughter said “Mummeee…” on Friday night, my heart sank.

The children broke up from school last Wednesday, so we had had what felt like several light years to get ready for her Beavers trip to a local fire station. So at 5.55 pm, I was of course losing my keys and fighting with my hair straighteners.

“What do you want?” I asked suspiciously.

“You said you were going to iron my Beavers scarf.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You promised last Friday.”

My heart sank even further. I did promise, and I had failed to deliver. Again.

“I know I promised, but we haven’t got time now,” I said.

“But you said you would iron the folds in. I won’t get the Smartest Beaver award without ironed folds.”

Well. There was only one solution. The hair straighteners.

“Right. Ironed folds are what you will have,” I declared.

Only they weren’t. Why doesn’t it say in the hair straightener instructions “not to be used on polyester Beavers scarves”?

Fortunately the fire brigade did not have to cancel our Beavers trip as a result of the scarf-meets-hair-straightener scenario. But if my hair develops green and blue polyester stripes, I will know why.