The page you requested might be temporarily unavailable, moved to another url or expired.
Try clicking on the links below to find what you are looking for. Otherwise, let us know how we can help you.
If you're having trouble getting to the page you want, please report this problem to our customer service team. Click here
Bedtime musings from Thing 2 (aged 4)
Night 1
Thing 2: Mummy
Me: Yes angel
Thing 2: When it's dark and I look at your face you look just like Darth Vadar
Night 2
Thing 2: Mummy your hair is just like pasta...except for the gray and silver bits
Night 3 (huddled close and having bedtime kisses)
Thing 2: Mummy your breath doesn't smell very nice
Me: Oh dear, sorry about that. What does it smell like?
Thing 2: Fish food
I'm not taking any of it personally...
Flag it:
I really do. There's something so marvellously British about it. The gentle 'thwack', the spectator's heads gong back and forth, the dulcet tones of the umpire, the brollies...it's all so brilliant. I don't get to go much any more, but I feel I must take Thing 1 to give him a bit of inspiration.
He's been playing tennis for about 2 years and fankly and think I'm wasting my money. I mean, I don't expect to produce a Wimbledon champ, but I do think we could have a decent game now and again. But no. We last played together a couple of weeks ago. Here's how it went:
Me serving. Thing 1 missed. Thing 1 threw his racket.
Thing 1 serving. I returned. He missed. He stamped around for a good few minutes.
Me serving. Thing 1 returned. We had a good volley of two hits each. Thing 1 sent it out. He cried.
End of match.
He turns up at his lessons every week and spends the entire hour:
1. shooting the enemy (whoever they are) with his machine gun/raquet, rolling around to avoid enemy bullets
2. playing air guitar with aformentioned raquet
3. using balls as grenades and seeing if he can get a direct hit on the coach
4. pretending to be wounded in battle and using raquet as crutch
He's no Andy Murray that's for sure. I think he may be more of a cricketer...
Flag it:Last week was half term, so I took a couple of days off work and we legged it to Horton Farm - we love it there. Met up with some mates (all with 8-year-old boys) - it seemed like a brilliant idea.
They were like a pack of wild dogs. There's this tractor that goes around the farm giving rides on the trailer - nice, harmless fun for the little ones. Then 6 long-haired (seems to be the thing never to go near the barbers when you're 8) hooligans decide it would be a good idea to pelt the hapless riders with handfulls of grass, soil - and most likely a bit of goat poo.
Me (yelling as sweetly as possible so as not to disturb the other very nice mums and their well-behaved offspring): Don't do that boys, it's not nice.
Hooligans: Got'im!
10 minutes later the tractor is back and this time the hooligans are running alongside the tractor shouting 'poo' and 'fart'.
Eva and Rene (motioning frantically to the hooligans): Boys! Come here now.
A big telling-off later and the hooligans slink off.
10 minutes later the tractor sails by - with 6 small boys hanging off the back of the trailer!!!!!
Me, Eva, Rene, Lisa (Kirsty has gone to get the teas): COME HERE NOW! (Shattering the peace and the eardrums of aforementioned nice mums)
Dire threats and warnings of banned PS2/gameboy/tamagotchi - FOR LIFE - and they slink off yet again.
Kirsty trots back with the teas gaily saying:
'The staff in the tearoom are all going on about some hideous little gang of yobs that are about to get kicked out - so ours aren't the only ones in trouble today - haha.'
Meanwhile... the very little fellas we also brought (3 of them) had managed to
1. hog the high wire slide so basically no-one else was getting a look in and everyone in the queue was crying
2. get liberally coated in cow poo
3. crawl under a fence and get in a field with 2 llamas.
At the end of the day, we cram the hooligans into various vehicles (by now we're desperate for a vat of wine and a fag), and Lisa manages to leave her bag on the ground and then run over it.
Dear god.
Flag it:
So guess who arrived by airmail the other day? Bunny! (See earlier blog for beginning of saga)
I whipped Bunny 2 (big bunny) into my wardrobe and then acted as if nothing at all had happened.
Thing 2: why is Bunny little again?
Me: because we haven't given him any more cheeseburgers. He's just slimmed down a little.
Thing 2: oh.
Thing 1: (in stage whisper) where's big bunny?
Me: SHHHH!!!!
Thing 1: no really, mum where is he?
Me: (hissing) he's in my wardrobe.
Later that day:
Me (to Thing 1): what's going on with the bunnies?
Thing 1: it's ok mum, I told Louis it was bunny's dad and he's come to live with us. I didn't want big bunny to live forever in the wardrobe. It's not nice is it?
??????????????????????????
Flag it:
I have a house full of sick kids, well 2 anyway. Thing 1 was rushed to the doctor's who diagnosed 'upper respiratory infection' - so we're not allowed to call it a chest infection even though it's not as long-winded to say. Doc prescribed anti-biotics and 2 days off school.
Thing 1 rushed around yesterday and made several hundred small figures from plasticine so I reckoned he'd be ok for school today. Upon hearing the news he'd be returning to school 'a day early', he threatened to call the police.
I'll be waiting for the boys in blue to turn up some time today.
Flag it: