Good evening, dear blog. I write to you from the 7th circle of hell that is my hormones. I have managed to avoid committing genocide or anything like that but, suffice to say, it’s probably best that you haven’t heard from me for a while.
So – rather than rave on like a scary psycho lady, I shall simply share a few oddments of randomness that are passing through my mind.
First of all – another snippet from The Book of ‘Crobe.
“Do you want to see my fart?”
“Fart. Look. This is where my fart is” *thumps chest*
“Do you mean heart?”
“Yes! Heart. This is where my heart is”
(Thank you, Stretch & Grow, for the continued anatomy lessons)
In other news, it is the season of gorgeousness. There are not words for how I love autumn. So far the boy appears to have collected his entire body weight in conkers. So we’ve strung a few up on our fireplace, and the rest are kicking around the flat making themselves inconvenient and waiting for the next shipment to arrive.
The boybot has also been helping me every week to harvest the fruits of our mini-allotment and his favourite phrase is “I’m your little helper!” (This also comes out when he’s helping daddy with the bins). Bless.
I’ve also spent an hour today adorning our residence with the latest output of brightly-coloured daubs that don’t look like what they look like. This was a result of nursery sending home an entire year’s worth of the microbe’s artwork in one go.
I found it quite amusing to sift through the art wad. You can see that they go a bit craft-mad around Halloween and bonfire night, and on festivals like Diwali, Chinese New Year and St Patrick’s Day. (They’re also very fond of paper plates).
But what I really want to rave about are these kids’ art frames. Seriously – if you have kids, you need one of these frames. I’ve just ordered a couple more on Amazon, to accommodate some of the output.
In other nursery news, James’s graceless rabble of a cohort is now (amazingly) the equivalent of a load of prefects. They rule the school. Alas, someone seems to have forgotten to applique ‘T-Birds’ and ‘Pink Ladies’ onto the back of their polo shirt uniforms.
They’ve now been joined by the new intake of 2-year-olds from the baby room, which means that James has had to get used to being chomped on again (we’re averaging two bites per week). It doesn’t seem to bother him very much but it amuses me no end when I ask who bit him and he says “little Alice” or “little Matthew“.
Last, but not least, sufferers of my recent posts will be glad to hear that it’s been ages since I even thought about toilet training… so I guess that means we’re done. (Hooray, we all cry!) Obviously by typing this I am ensuring the return of plastic-bags-of-shame…