Oh No! It’s The Food Police!

Tags

children, food, food and drink, funny, Humor, kids, Parenting, stay-at-home Dad

 

My daughter looks at me as I step out into the glorious sunshine, I’m eating a lemon-sorbet ice-pop, just the thing to cool me down on a day as hot as this. ‘You’ve had two of those today’ she says to me ‘Why have you had two of those today?’. It’s like this all the time at the moment, my daughter has turned into a food policeman/woman/child (delete as appropriate). You can’t put anything in your mouth – nothing edible anyway – without her noticing and commenting on it.

 

I was making her some food the other day, one of her favourites, sausage and chips, and I – as is customary for me – took a small piece of the second sausage, for what I refer to as ‘Daddy Tax’. This is a tax I levy on all foodstuffs (except cauliflower, bleurgh!) that I prepare for my kids, just a little off the top to keep me sweet (It is not, I repeat NOT ‘protection money’ in the form of food). She noticed straight away.

 

‘Why did you eat a piece of my sausage’ she said, her dark eyes fixed on me from beneath a furrowed brow. Was she in the room when I ate that piece of sausage? I don’t think she was, and as I break her sausages up into pieces, there shouldn’t really have been any way for her to notice. But notice she did.

 

I suspect that at night, when everyone else is asleep, she creeps downstairs and takes inventory of all the food in the house. She notes down all the different foodstuffs, the different quantities and then, if in her eyes you go over your allotted quota for the day, that’s when the interrogation, the questions, the accusations…that’s when it all starts.

 

Or I could just be being paranoid.

 

She’s always there, whenever food is being prepared, and if she isn’t, she magically will be as soon as she smells or hears it. It’s like one of those horror movie cliches, you know when you open the fridge-door, and then close it and there’s a mass murderer waiting, where previously there was nothing. Except it’s not a mass murderer, it’s a two-and-a-half foot tall munchkin who wants to know what you are doing with that pack of ham. And if you don’t respond then the consequences could be as dire as in the horror movie.

 

That’s if you equate being stared at for ten minutes, with the phrase ‘Can I have some’ repeated 278 times, to as bad as being stabbed to death by Michael Myers/Jason Voorhees/Freddy Krueger (delete as applicable).

 

She can also hear packets of crisps being opened from up to a mile away. I once opened a packet, downstairs in our house. I was alone, everybody else was off doing something else (together I should add, we don’t let our three and six year old wander the village on their own – we wouldn’t put the villagers through that). I hadn’t put one crisp in my mouth when I turned to see a pair of dark eyes staring at me through the patio windows.

 

They were my favourite flavour too.

 

I’m in the house on my own now too, and I think I might have an ice-cream. I’ll be ok though, she’s at nursery today. There’s no chance she can get me. Is there?

 

Hang on…I think I heard something….

OCD Much Darling?

Tags

children, Family, France, French, funny, Humor, kids, stay-at-home Dad

 

We are just about to set off out for a picnic, an impromptu plan suggested by yours truly, on what is a gloriously sunny day. One of the added benefits of living where we do in France, is that we are a stone’s throw away from some truly lovely parks, and a short five-minute drive from my partner’s work; meaning we can pick her up on the way.

 

Everything’s ready to go, sandwiches are made and packed; drinks are ready; desserts are also in the bag for the kids (not for myself and my partner though as I  think – incorrectly as the black looks I later receive attest – we don’t need them).

 

Yes everything’s ready to go, the kids don’t even need to go to the toilet – I know this as I have asked them the requisite 58 times. Only ask 57 times and you are treading on thin ice*.

 

So, I think to myself, as I don my footwear, if everything’s ready to go why is my daughter crying?

 

My son is running around her in a circle, so I assume this is what’s making her cry. I tell him to stop, but she keeps crying and makes a grab for his shoes. Has he stolen something from her and hidden it in his shoes?

 

You might laugh at that, but these two would give airport-security a run for their money when it comes to finding new and interesting places to hide things. I know what that implies, and I stand by it. You DO NOT want to know where I’ve found marbles…and then promptly thrown said marble away.

 

I had to, it was a health and safety issue.

 

Anyway, back to my teary-eyed daughter and I finally, somewhat disbelievingly, discover what she’s crying about. One of the velcro grips on my son’s shoes is not lined up correctly.

 

Just re-read that sentence to yourself.

 

They aren’t her shoes, they are someones else’s. They are on the correct feet, but one, ONE of the velcro straps is slightly, SLIGHTLY ‘askew’.

 

She often mothers him, I’ve mentioned this in the past, so that’s not much of a surprise. This however, is a new level of fastidiousness.

 

She loves everything in her life to be ‘just so’, her hair has to be a certain way, the clothes have to match up, things in her room have to be lined up correctly. I tidied the books on her floor up the other week while I was mopping, as they seemed to be messy, this led to a three-hour interrogation on why I had done it, and why I shouldn’t do it again.

 

Did I mention she’s only three?

 

I tentatively reach over to my son’s shoe and correctly line-up the velcro grip. He couldn’t care less; if I took them off and replaced them with odd shoes – odd girl’s shoes – he’d quite happily carry on regardless. I think I could offer him hollowed-out racoons and he’s shove them on each foot. He’s a free spirit.

 

The effect on my daughter, however, is immediate and obvious. The tears stop rolling down her face, as if someone’s turned off a tap, her attitude changes completely and we head out the door.

 

She’s three.

 

Three.

 

What is going to happen at puberty????

 

 

 

*As it turns out 58 times IS NOT the charm. Not only did my son need a wee at the park he also had to go ‘number two’, which I, in a very civic-minded-manner, had to scoop up and carry. I used baby-wipes and held it like the world’s smelliest, warmest bomb. I do not wish to repeat that experience.

The Results From Tonight’s Mario Kart 8 Deluxe Race….

Tags

children, Computer games, entertainment, Family, fun, funny, games, Gaming, Humor, Nintendo, Parenting

I invested in a Nintendo Switch at launch – yes I actually managed to get one! – as the only way I can play games these days is in a portable form. This is mainly due to the TV being used for family viewing – shows, films etc. Playing games has to fit around my other duties – and never the other way around.

 

It was supposed to just be my domain – mine alone. However my children soon persuaded me into letting them have a go. One thing that I love about Nintendo is that, by and large, their games are wholesome, I don’t have to worry about my children seeing or hearing anything they shouldn’t. This even extends to their online gaming, players are not allowed to speak to each other, just select from a set of pleasant phrases.

 

My children’s choice for gaming tonight? Mario Kart 8 Deluxe. I must admit to initially dismissing this as a lazy port from the WiiU, Nintendo’s ‘failed’ system (though I’d argue against that, we have one in the house and my son loves it). However I have grown to love it over the last week or so, a love that quickly spread to my kids.

 

How did they get on? Well see for yourselves as I give a brief description of their playing styles:

 

 

My Son

(shooting anything and everything as often as possible)

‘Shoot it! Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it! It’s coming at me! I’m getting the sea!!! Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it! Look at that guy!!! Daddy Look at that guy!!! Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it! I’m winning Daddy!!! Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!Shoot it!’

This goes on throughout the match, he does not close his mouth at all – except for a ten minute break where his tooth falls out (due to natural causes I might add, it’s been wobbling for a while).

My Daughter

(reverses slowly in a circle, holding one solitary banana skin)

”

Stays absolutely silent throughout and, I think, the other players take pity on her, as she still has four of her five balloons left at the end of the battle.

RESULT: TIE

We had a great time playing it together, it’s a top system and I can see it becoming more integrated into family life. Not just now though, the Switch is a somewhat ‘fragile’ system and so not one that can be left alone with a very active 3 and 6 year-old. For now it will just be the odd supervised bit of fun…and the rest of the time? It will be mine..(does best Bowser impersonation) ALL MINE! BWA HA HA!!

My Son Has Put All His Toys In Compromising Positions…

Tags

children, fun, funny, Humor, Parenting

Let me preface this blog post by stating that this is very immature on my part and, you know what? I don’t care. This had me in fits of giggles when I saw it, I hope it amuses you too. Bear in mind that these photos weren’t taken over a period of days, they were taken on the same night.

 

My son loves his bath-time toys, but maybe not as much as they love each other…

 

‘Come here’ says somewhat short Mr T-Rex, ‘come here, and give me some loving’. ‘If it’s all the same with you’ says Mr Ankylosaurus ‘I’d rather not’.

 

‘Come on in’ says Minecraft Steve ‘I’m hot to trot and ready to go’. ‘I don’t think so pal’ says Minecraft Diamond Steve ‘Unless there’s a third wheel this party ain’t getting started’.

 

‘Rid romerody ray third wheel?’ says Scooby, shuffling backwards in the direction of Minecraft Steve’s head ‘Errr, On second thoughts..’ begins Minecraft Steve. ‘Too late now’ says Minecraft Diamond Steve…

 

‘Hot damn girl’ says random young deer ‘You gots it all going on back there, umm umm that booty be mighty fine’. ‘Hang on a minute’ says random mother deer ‘Aren’t you my son? I’m sure we came packaged together’.

 

 

 

 

I may be reading too much in to all this…

My Daughter Sucks At French…

Tags

France, French, fun, funny, Humor, Parenting, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

I’ve just picked up my daughter from nursery and, as we head across the car park to pick up her brother, she puts a question to me.

 

‘Daddy?’

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘Can I have a lolly when we get home?’

 

‘Yes. En Francais? Ce’st une sucette’

 

‘I want a lolly’

 

‘Oui, mai en Francais ce’st une sucette’

 

‘I want a lolly’

 

‘En Francais ‘j’voudrais une sucette’

 

Talking to me as one would to someone who is hard of hearing/foreign/stupid

 

‘I’

 

‘Want’

 

‘A’

 

‘Lolly’

 

At this point I give up and agree, as long as she walks all the way to her brother’s school and I don’t have to carry her.

 

I still have to carry her.

 

And she gets her ‘sucette’.

Sick Beds And Trapped Bees At The New School In France…

Tags

Bees, children, education, France, French, funny, Humor, school, teachers, Traditions, training

One of the actual classrooms we went in, this one is where you learn English – I did have to point out though that ‘Britain’ is not spelt with two ‘T’s. Whether this will have enamored me to our new host or not, only time will tell.

It’s a miserable wet Tuesday morning and my son, my daughter, myself and the (French) mother-in-law are visiting my son’s new school. We are visiting it during the school holidays and the head-teacher has very nicely agreed to open it, so that we can all have a look around and see what my curly-haired boy thinks of it.

It’s a huge building which, the headteacher informs us is ‘Very old…deux-cent’ (200 years). There are many rooms with all kinds going on in each one and, obviously, lots and lots of French writing. I find this daunting and I’m not the one that will be attending, but my son loves it.

We enter one room and the headteacher motions to my children to approach a large box on wheels that appears to be some kind of cabinet. He then, in a very magician-esque way, pulls off one of the panels on the cupboard/box/thingy to reveal BEES! Lots and lots of bees. The idea, he says, is that the kids look after the bees, the bees make honey, and the kids eat the honey.

After showing us both sides of the bee-box he then puts the cover back on, sealing the bees away. ‘What a holiday they are having!’ I say in broken French to my belle-mere ‘The kids go off on vacation to the lakes, or the south of France, and they get to spend two weeks bumping into each other in the dark in a big box’. Potential bee-right violations aside it’s another great idea that this school has – they also have some mini-allotments at the entrance to encourage the kids to start to grow their own food.

Bit too close to the entrance if you ask me – if this was England anything they grew would get plundered when they reached a ripened state.

We carry on and enter the staff room, dominated by the head-teacher’s desk in the centre of the room. He then shows us the other parts of the room (It’s very Scooby Doo – there seem to be doors that lead off into other areas all over the place) and indicates the sick bed.

Now I can’t speak for everybody but in my village back in England the school there had a very simple approach to sick children. If you cough too much – you go home. If you are sick – you go home. Look a bit pale? you go home. It was an almost knee-jerk reaction in its speed the way in which the school would get in touch with you if your child exhibited the slightest indication that they were sick.

I’m told – after telling the head-teacher that these don’t exist anymore in England – that they do this because they understand the difficulties of working life for people with children. If your child is a bit unwell, or is sick, they take them to the sick bay and monitor them for an hour or so. If they perk up then off they go back to play/learn/whatever. If not then they will contact the parent (s).

This is another great tradition that I experienced in my lifetime that has sadly disappeared from the UK – too ‘risky’ these days I suppose, in our culture of blame. So I’m pleased that it still exists over here, in our new home.

My son is pleased as punch with his new school, which eases my mind. He’d been a bit sick the previous night and we were both worried that it was due to worry about his new, somewhat ‘alien’, learning environment. This is clearly not the case though, as he happily runs from empty class to empty class, admiring the old traditions that sit alongside newer technologies – touch-sensitive whiteboards for example.

We reach the cafeteria as our tour comes to an end and, the headteacher informs us, he will be able to dine with his sister as the nursery and the school eat together. This pleases my two children no end, ‘We will have dinner together’ they happily shout.

We head off back to the mother-in-law’s for dinner, walking down the high street, which is beautiful despite the miserable weather. As we do we pass by the local florists. ‘Look daddy!’ my son says, pointing to a bunch of flowers. ‘Oh yes, they are very pretty’ I say to him. ‘No look, there’s a bee!’. He’s quite right, there is, crawling happily over the…whatever it is (I’m not a horticulturalist, OK?). ‘It’s escaped from the school’ I tell him, and he looks back at me with huge eyes. ‘Bad bee!’ he says, ‘We’ve got to get it back!’ ‘We’ll tell the headmaster next week’ I tell him ‘He’ll send out the bee-police’.

This seems to satisfy him and we head off down the high street hand-in-hand, all four of us, looking forward to the future.

Interesting Conversations With My Son…

Tags

children, funny, growing up, Humor, kids, musings, Parenting

 

 

 

I enter the kids’ play room to see my (recently turned) six-year-old son with his underpants and trousers around his ankles:

 

Me: ‘What are you doing?’

 

 

My Son: ‘I’m just checking my willy because it’s longer now because I’m six now and it will be getting bigger so I’m just checking that it’s bigger’

 

 

Me: ‘……….oh alright then but could you put it away now, and next time can you check that after your sister has finished her breakfast?….and when she’s not sat right next to you….?’

 

 

 

We are driving around the local city admiring the Christmas lights up in local houses, we head further afield and see some really crazy displays. The kids love it and we end up near where I used to live many years ago, I tell the kids this as we pull up outside my old home. As we head off my son starts talking about my history of habitation:

 

My Son: ‘Did you live there before you lived with me and Mamou?’

 

 

Me: ‘Eh?’

 

 

My Son: ‘Before you lived with me and Mamou did you live there?’

 

 

Me: ‘I lived with Mamou son, then you came along and then your sister’.

 

 

My Son: ‘No, no, I lived with Mamou, then you came to live with us, and then my sister came to live with us’

 

 

Me: ‘I’m not going to argue with you son, but there’s a pretty glaring flaw in your logic there buddy…..’

 

 

We are sat at home, next to the twinkling Christmas tree, there’s a nativity scene depicting Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus next to the fireplace. We are planning a move to France soon and, obviously putting these two elements together, my son comes out with this beauty:

 

 

My Son: ‘Will we pay taxes in France?’

 

 

Mamou: ‘What?’

 

 

My Son: ‘Will we pay taxes in France?’

 

 

Mamou: ‘Of course we will, why do you ask?’

 

 

My Son: ‘Well it’s just that Mary and Joseph had to pay taxes so I just wanted to know if we will have to pay taxes too’

 

 

 

Yes, only six years old and yet already aware of one of life’s harshest realities: taxes are one of the only two certainties in this life. The longer I can keep him ignorant of the other one, the better I’ll like it.

My Partner Does Strange Things To Cuddly Toys, And Puts Mushrooms In Odd Places…

Tags

children, food, fun, funny, Humor, musings, Parenting, stay-at-home Dad

My son loves his cuddly toys, to an almost scary degree. He looks after them, makes them beds, creates costumes for them, and just generally anthropomorphizes* the hell out of them. His latest two acquisitions are a small bear – who’s called ‘Pinky’ – and a dolphin, that he’s dubbed ‘Sniffy’. It’s cold in the UK at the moment  (not the usual year-round-cold, it’s the December cold-in-your-bones kind of cold) so he decided that Pinky and Sniffy needed clothes.

He’s outsourced this to his mummy, my partner, as she’s a dab hand at most things craft-related. And she’s not missed a step with these two either but, and disagree with me if you will, I can’t help thinking they’re a bit sinister.

Prepare to make your own minds up, ladies and gentlemen, as I present to you:

BANK ROBBER BEAR

‘GIVE ME THE MONEY!!!’ Its beady little eyes now seem to say. What was once a cute and unassuming bear is now filled with menace and the need to get as much money as possible, and make a swift getaway. ‘WE’RE NOT HERE FOR YOUR MONEY WE WANT THE BANK’S MONEY’ look at him, all he needs is a gun and he’s Robert DeNiro in Heat. It only took the merciless carving up of a poor innocent spare sock (we’ve got thousands of them) to turn this once peaceful bear into a potential one-bear-crimewave.

I don’t like the way he looks at me any more either…look at that odd tilt he’s got to his head, like he’s weighing me up. He didn’t have that tilt before I’m sure. I think he’s deciding whether to shoot me, or just knock me out, to make an example of me to the rest of the household.

Also note his right paw, the way it seems to be reaching behind him….I don’t want to know what for….

But if you thought that was bad you should see…

BURKINI DOLPHIN

Alright, alright, you might argue that me bandying around the phrase ‘Burkini’ with regards to a cuddly dolphin could be seen as politically incorrect. I don’t care. Look at it – what else would you call it? Quite why a dolphin would wear a Burkini is wayyyyyy beyond me. Aren’t their sex organs on their rears? So just a small cap would suffice (I could be wrong here, I haven’t looked up dolphin sexual organs since……actually I have never looked up dolphin sexual organs**).

I must admit that when it comes to clothing this dolphin the form certainly dictates what shape the end product is going to be, but the colour reinforces my perception of it. Why couldn’t we have had a bright yellow outfit, maybe with a splash of red? Then I wouldn’t have looked at the dolphin’s outfit in this way. Or pink, pink would have been lovely…

I must say, as my partner is French – and we all know their views on Burkinis – I was quite surprised when this was the result of her busy-beavering with the scissors.

Still, it could have been worse, at least she didn’t make the dolphin look like the getaway driver for bank-robber-bear.

And what did she do next? Why she stored the mushrooms in the pot-pourri bowl in our house…..

See we’ve recently bought a new fridge freezer, due to our old one joining the white-goods death-cult that has overtaken our household in recent weeks. It’s like they’ve all heard I’ve got a job and have decided to top themselves.

So far the death-list includes: Washing machine (the first to die), fridge-freezer, Television*** and the vacuum is effectively on life-support, it’s held together by selotape – that’s not a joke, when I get a minute I’ll upload a photo of the poor little mite.

Well obviously these are things we can’t live without so they had to be replaced, but the fridge freezer, as it turns out, ended up being smaller than our old one. Hilariously so, to the degree that we began to compare it to a doll’s house accessory.

So why are the mushrooms on top of the pot-pourri? Because they wouldn’t fit in our new, snack-size, fridge-freezer, so logically they were placed in the coldest place in the kitchen. This, according to my partner, was on top of the pot-pourri bowl.

The spaghetti bolognaise, with mushrooms, that we consumed the next night had distinct hints of sage, garlic….and also the scents of cedar, jujube and rose…a memorable feast.

*oooh look at me and my big words

** I haven’t and will deny I have if you say I have

*** Funny story, well I think it’s funny anyway. I replaced the TV as it had started slowly dying, taking ages to power on etc. So I bought a 43 inch LED TV, that turned out to be faulty, so I returned it. Then when I got the new one I noticed 43 inch 4K tvs weren’t much more expensive, so I bought a 43 inch one of those. THEN I noticed that the price difference between the 43 inch 4K tvs and the 49 inch 4K tvs wasn’t that great so I upgraded it. I have kept the old TV as I believe it will still work, further down the line. But the remote control is missing. I now believe that it is stuck inside one of my numerous returned TV boxes in a warehouse somewhere in the UK. Oh and yes, my partner did go mental at me for swapping TVs four times.

In Search Of Synonyms For Pink Fluffy Things…

Tags

children, exercise, funny, school, stay-at-home Dad

 

 

Fridays are a bit hectic for me. My son has an hour of extra-curricular activities after school, 30 minutes of gymnastics followed by 30 minutes of street-dance. Or it might be the other way around.

 

I pick him up straight after he gets dropped off by the walking-bus (a life/sanity saving system employed by schools to help busy parents avoid having to go to the school to pick up their kids, due to work commitments or otherwise) bundle him into the car, change him in the front passenger seat and drive around to the village hall – where the classes are held. I then carry him across the road – sans shoes, to save time – shoulder my way through the small ‘waiting room’ and hurl him into the hall.

 

I’m in such a rush because my daughter stays in the car while I do this. The lady-on-the-door (LOTD) keeps an eye on my car, she seems to perfectly understand my situation. Maybe she had a pair of kids like that when she was my age, one that was fairly easy to manage, and obeyed commands (my son) and the other that behaved to all intents and purposes like King Kong when he breaks his chains. Except my daughter isn’t interested in Fay Wray, or Naomi Watts. No, she just wants to wander into the road and then eat everything in sight. She’d eat Naomi Watts if you covered her in cheese.

 

She also like bananas.

 

I could get my daughter out of the car, head across to the village hall and remain in the waiting room with all the other parents who want to be anywhere else but there, feeling time slow down to a crawl, avoiding eye contact and trying to breathe through my mouth to avoid the sweaty-foot-odour that pervades the room.

 

I could also flick toothpaste into my eyes, both options are equally appealing.

 

This Friday was no different. We did all the usual rigmarole after school,  then after a journey back home we went to pick him up in the car, parking opposite the aforementioned village hall. I dashed across, to see if they were finished. ‘Are they finished….’ I began to LOTD, but looking through the small window in the village hall entrance-door I could see my son still racing around a during one of his classes (street dance? gymnastics??). He was waving pink fluffy things around. ‘Oh…’  I continued, ‘He’s waving some pink fluffy things around’ I knew the name for these pink fluffy things, but just couldn’t bring it to mind. ‘No, they’re not finished yet but I’ll give you a wave when they are’ replied LOTD.

 

I headed back over to the car and got comfy while we waited, my daughter and I. She’s slightly elevated in her seat at the back, and can see into the hall. ‘Is he coming?’ she asked me. ‘Not yet’ I said ‘He’s still either dancing or…gymnasticing…he’s doing something with pink fluffy things’. My daughter shuffled around in her seat behind me. ‘Daddy?’ she said, questioningly. ‘Yes?’ I replied. ‘Is he dancing with his pom-poms?’

 

My jaw dropped slightly. ‘Yes’ I said to her, ‘He’s dancing with his pom-poms’.

 

She’s only two-years-and-three-quarters old, and yet she can still name one of the most famous dance accessories in the world quicker than her forty-year-old dad.

 

Now the question is, is that a good thing or a bad thing…..?

 

The Kid With Two Mums…

Tags

children, fun, funny, Humor, Parenting

 

I may have mentioned in the past, or if not then maybe just intimated, that my daughter is very advanced for her years. This has taken a rather interesting turn lately, as she has now gone from just helping my son (who is her senior by three years) put his shoes on, to actively telling him off if he fails to do it in a timely fashion.

 

Yes, my son now has two mothers to look after him.

 

But mainly to tell him off.

 

I feel bad for him sometimes. Case in point, yesterday he was sat happily playing on his WiiU, but we were due to go to church and so had asked him to stop playing and get dressed. Like any nearly-six-year-old boy does, he promptly ignored us the first 8 times of asking.This led to his sister taking matters into her own hands by heading over to him, and attempting to wrestle the Gamepad out of his hands. There then followed some ‘light’ biting and lots of tears.

 

We did manage to get to church on time though.

 

She’s not just physical with him though, she gets very verbal too and, as she’s by far the loudest thing in the house (even beating my surround-sound system by about 25 Watts) this means you’re never more than ten minutes away from ear-piercing shrieks. The house regularly reverberates to cries of ‘Put your shoes on’ ‘Stop it!’ ‘Get dressed’ and, current unfortunate favourite: ‘Put your willy away!’.

 

He doesn’t seem to mind too much though – except for when he is occupied with video games of course – he even tries to turn it to his advantage. When he’s finished with his plate of toast, Babybel and his hot-chocolate drink (breakfast staples in our house) he casually gives the detritus to his sister to clear away. There’s a fine line between parenting – or surrogate parenting – and serfdom, and my son crosses it with a smile on his face, while he exploits his sister.

 

It seems to work quite well for them though, they are thick as thieves and love each other to bits. I don’t want him to get too complacent with his double-helping of mothers though, I bumped into a local lady in the village, a grandma who, as we were talking about our kids, turned out to have a son just like mine: looked after by mother AND sister. ‘He’s useless’ she hissed at me, bitterness evident in her tone ‘He’s a fat idle thing who just sits around all day, waited on hand and foot’.

 

So I guess what’s cute and funny now, may need addressing at some point in the future. After all, I don’t want a double-dose of mothers to eventually lead to a double-dose of chins on my son’s lovely face…