1. Hand Prints
2. Footsteps
3. Hand Outs
We did a bit better today, although writing this in the evening, me on the sofa, and The Man on His Chair, we are pale, fatter, worn out shadows of our BC selves. Son 2 aged 2 woke in the night wailing for Mummy. I have decided he can’t have Mummy, Daddy is his reward for antisocial behaviour, so off trogged The Man to sort him out. And then Son 1 aged 5 arrived in The Big Bed. It was 8am before anyone tipped me out of bed, which is a Good Thing. “Can we get Granny now?” asked Son 1, the moment his eyes snapped open. He swiftly moved on to the plaster-of-paris handprint kits I gave both Son 1 and Son 2 for their birthdays. After breakfast, I said, sternly. You make a mould, and then pour plaster in, and then lo, a spooky Pompeii-style memento of the size your child used to be. Well I like them. And so does Son 1. And they were cheap in TK Maxx. We messed up the first kit by spreading the gel too thin. And decided to make two out of Son 2’s. Son 1 sat, Perfect Child, his hand absolutely still, flat in the gel. Son 2 cried at having to keep his hand still. So we tried his foot. He cried. The gel crept up his fat little thigh. We tried his hand again. He crumbled the rapidly-setting gel material in his hand. He crumbled his mould, and then poured water from the jug in. It was a craft material. We let him get on with it. Later, ready to collect Granny from the Airport, the kitchen was spotless, and Son 2 was wearing the latest outfit she’d sent him. While we were still tidying frantically elsewhere, he climbed up to and opened the plaster-of-paris packet from the handprint kit, sending stiff white powder down his Sunday best and all over the kitchen. I texted this to his Godmother, who has finally been released from hospital. “I love Son 2,” she texted back. “You can buy him on eBay,” I replied.
We had a coffee at the Airport while we were waiting for Granny’s plane. And then saw her, trailing forlornly outside, pulling her case on wheels. Oops. The Man and I are veterans of the Airport in the days when the sound of planes landing shook the paint off the tinpot terminal walls and rattled the fillings in your teeth. It’s all got a bit bigger since then. Son 1 and Son 2 were skipping with delight to see her. We played Spot The Yellow Car all the way home, with Granny proving almost as good as Son 1. A cup of tea, then lunch, and then we walked into The Town. Son 1 was still pingponging off the walls, and I decided we needed to Burn His Energy Off. He did very well, walking the 3/4 mile down to The Square and then some on the way back. Climbing up onto every railing, going up and down every step, round and round every column, under every cycle rail and up onto every flat surface offering King Of The Castle potential. It’s a form of Free Running. Only much, much, much slower.
I made Fish and Chips for tea, Sea Bass I bought from the fishmonger’s yesterday, home-made chips and peas. I was five minutes from landing when friends called round. They’d bought a jacket on ebay for their 3 year old. It was too big, but beautiful. Did we want it for Son 1 for the winter? Ooh yes please. And an unwanted bimini someone was throwing out, which they’d thought we’d like for The Boat. “Bim bimini, Bim bimini,” sang The Man. He’s got a great line in malapropism. “Sit!” he said to Son 2. “You sound like you’re training a dog,” I said. “I know. I feel like Mary Whitehouse sometimes.” “Do you mean Barbara Wodehouse?”" “Same thing.” Son 1, Son 2 and 3 year old played in the garden. We drank and chatted. Our friends left. Tea was late. Bedtime was late. Oh well, only 2 weeks till half term. We can all have a bit of a rest then.
Tags: airport, barbara wodehouse, bimini, eBay, Free Running, Granny, handprints, mary whitehouse, plaster of paris, sea bass, sleep problems, Yellow Car
