I don’t think you’re ready

I had a moment of parental bratitude this week over school jelly.  The dinner ladies had sent a message home via the Microbe to say that I should start sending a packed lunch on Thursdays because it’s always pizza and the boy refuses to touch it because of the demon tomato.  (Sigh).

So I set up a calendar reminder to make him a sandwich every Thurs morning and thought that was the end of it.  But this week he told me at bleary o’clock that I also had to pack a pudding for him because he’d been upset the week before when they wouldn’t let him have any jelly.  (I had v. naively assumed that kids with packed lunches would still be allowed school puddings). So I started raving on about “Mr Bumble” refusing to give my workhouse oik any jelly…   until one of my mum friends pointed out that it’s probably because kids with packed lunches are assumed to have allergies and the staff would be in trouble if they let them have jelly.  So, alas, I had to admit that I was being the worst kind of brat. We all have our moments.  (Obviously I am only confessing to it here as a wilful excuse to use this blog title.)

In other news, Hubble seems to be broken.  I remember bragging like an insufferable cow to my NCT friends about what a good baby she was – no trouble whatsoever at bedtime and always sleeping through the night. And one of my pals replied, like a voice of doom “Yeah … my daughter was exactly the same for 18 months, and then she started waking up every night and demanding to come into our bed and is STILL doing it.”

Damn you, Harps, you evil soothsayer.  She has turned, right on cue.  No longer can we put her in her cot and watch her nod off dreamily while we read to the boy.  Instead we get an hour of screaming at bedtime followed by a 3am siren call from above, demanding parental bed rights, which are usually granted on the basis of parental knackeredness.

And, on top of that, she is WRECKING the Xmas tree on a daily basis since she discovered that there are chocolates on it. (This is entirely G’s fault as he deems it a form of child abuse not to smother a tree with chocolates).  As far as Hubble is concerned, the correct word for Xmas Tree is “More!”  She’s even worked out her favourite route for climbing to the higher branches after she’s cleaned up the lower half.


So, today I am off work and was planning to get all of the presents out of hiding while the kids are out and to start some wrapping up.  This was a great plan until I found the boy ferreting about in my bedroom this morning, commenting on the secret wrapping paper that Father C had earmarked for stockings. There is no hiding anything from that boy.


Well, I’m sure I can think of some more FWP to moan about on here, but I’d probably better get on with stuff…



About Susan Flockhart

Bonsai lady-geek and blogger. I can hardly recall what I used to blog about pre-microbes, but these days I generally ramble about motherhood, nonsense and whatever's going on the world of tiny people
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