I found this taped to the boys’ bedroom door the other night:
There’s an obscure joke to be made about this and this post on the Schengen area on Jon Worth’s blog; I’m too tired to make it. Fill in the gaps yourselves there now.
Michael
Cultural Differences
It is the end of GAA training until after Christmas. The young men from the under 8s are invited to a Christmas party. Last Saturday was the deadline for paying for the party. I brought my money dutifully. Another mother whom I know from our time soldiering together on the side of the pitch arrived rather late and handed over her money and appeared to be scurrying away again. “Are you off already?” I asked in surprise. “Yes,” she said, “[the GAA under 8 boy] and his sister are both sick in bed.” And off she went, looking quite harassed. When I related this to Mr. Waffle we both marvelled at the trouble that she had gone to and as one said, “Of course, she’s English.” Later in the week the inevitable email arrived: 57 boys have been signed up for the party but only 36 have paid, can the others bring their money on the day?
Gotcha!
Horrid Henry has a game that he plays with his friends that is modelled on Monopoly. It’s called Gotcha and features dragons’ lairs instead of streets and rubies instead of money but the principles are similar. In an ill-fated moment of inspiration, Mr. Waffle suggested to the boys that he and they might make Gotcha themselves and, with the aid of pictures printed out from the internet, an old packet of Rice Krispies and a Pritt stick, they did.
They, therefore, successfully created a game even duller than Monopoly which one or other of the boys always wants to play but never both together. Mr. Waffle and I have put in many unhappy hours on the Gotcha board. Yesterday afternoon we stayed at home, the weather was inclement. Daniel tired of the rugby on the television and begged to play Gotcha instead so he and I did so. If I never play Gotcha again, it won’t be too soon.
Standards
Michael came into our bedroom this morning at 4.23 fully dressed in his school uniform. “I’m ready to go to school,” he announced happily. I lured him into our bed where he chatted merrily. “Would you like to take off your school uniform and put your pyjamas back on?” I asked hopefully. He did not fancy this. Eventually he fell back asleep, fully clothed (including tie, people) and in the morning we got him up and sent him off to school in his slept in uniform. Look, don’t judge, he got to change out of it again at 4 in the afternoon. Sigh.
Getting Bigger
About a month ago we gave up reading bedtime stories to the boys and just let them hop into bed with their own books; the end of an era. I am torn between sorrow and joy.
Bump
I was summoned to the school during the week because Michael had fallen and got a big bump on the back of his head and his brother and another child had then (accidentally, due to momentum, I understand) run over his face and he also had a bloody nose. Oh he was woeful. But he is now entirely recovered. Partly because he got to spraypaint his sister’s old pink bike. The excitement! Photo to follow once we have put on a second coat. It’s just one thrill after another around here.
