Tortoise Tales

 There is another new arrival in the household. Meet Blanchefleur:

Blanche is a 10 week old Hermann's Tortoise, though I prefer the sound of her Latin name: Testudo hermanni.  Life expectancy is seventy-five years, though many live beyond this. All things being equal, she's going to outlive me.

I'd like to say that this is a pet for the children, but really, I have a fascination with reptiles - so this is actually one for Hearth Mother. I could watch her for hours as she goes about her tortoise business. She is very cute, and has plenty of growing to do.

Given Blanche's preferred Mediterranean climate, she comes, understandably, with a few housing requirements. I have purchased tortoise 'substrata' and a heat/UVB lamp for her tortoise table. My proliferation of spider plants have been put to good use to decorate her new environment, along with some wooden hiding places and rocks: a mixture of pet-shop purchases and garden finds. Dandelion and coriander are her favourite foods so far, but I have plenty to learn about her diet and caring for her. This is really new territory for me.

That takes the household tally to nine animals. I've been told, in no uncertain terms, to stop there.

Half Term Plate Spinning

The character of half term definitely changes as the children get older.

For starters, I get disproportionately cross at the wheedling morning conversation that begins, What are we doing today?

'Nothing' is apparently not a satisfactory answer to this question. And supervising half term basically requires a qualification in plate spinning.

Because, after shooting myself in the foot by starting the week with the surprise 10am big screen showing of Spider-Man Spirals into the Super Spiderverse - might have got that title wrong, it was something like that - first thing on Monday morning, I seem unable to top the wow factor.

(There was an ulterior motive to this uncharacteristically generous and thoughtful surprise though; it bought me two hours of precious scrapbooking time with a fellow mum while they were safely ensconced in the cinema with secreted home-made popcorn. Oh, and the tickets were less than £3 each.)

Since then I have tried to avoid a descent into the eleventh circle of hell (death by screens and devices) by: attempting to make homework 'fun' (that didn't turn out terribly well), encouraging drawing and doodling with actual pens, supervising fudge-making, driving eldest on a five hour round trip to visit her cousins, and even dragging out the unbelievably faffy chocolate coin maker of a few Christmases ago which tries my patience entirely since there are 35 steps to make a single sodding coin.

And it's only Wednesday! Happy half term.

Currently Reading:

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco

What the Six-Year-Old Said to the Bishop

Last night was the induction mass for our new parish priest, presided over by the bishop, and Gertie and Gilby were asked to serve. (Dangerous in these daddy-long-legs infested days; nevertheless Gilby maintained concentration throughout the service.)

Eddie was (unusually for him) immaculately behaved. Whilst this had more to do with falling asleep right from the responsorial psalm all the way through to communion, than with any great triumph of will, it was worth the dead arm for some peace.

At the end of the service, the bishop shook hands with all of the congregation and thanked Gertie and Gilby profusely for their help. Eddie, wide-eyed and only just awake held out his tiny hand. The bishop, with a twinkle in his eye, looked back and forth between them. "Well," he said, "I think you must be the brother of young Gilbert and young Gertrude here! How do you think I know that?"

"Duh. Because of the eyes and the hair," came the unimpressed retort of the newly-six-year-old.

And the bishop wasn't the only one to be on the receiving end of this treatment. An unsuspecting member of the blue-rinse brigade had overheard that it had been Eddie's birthday. "Let me guess...you were...fifty!" she joked, affectionately.

"Don't be ridiculous. I was six, " came the dismissive, refusing-to-join-in-the-banter reply.

When Honesty is Not the Best Policy

After working on manners over the holiday, I think I need to move on to lessons in diplomacy.

My children are...too honest, it seems.  The latest example came in the confines of the family changing cubicle at our local swimming pool.

"Mummy's tummy is very wobbly!" pronounced one, to the general giggles and chortlement of the others as I was busy getting changed.  Chortlement, of course, isn't actually a word, but should be, since it so accurately describes the atmosphere within the cubicle.  Though Mummy, it has to be said, was not feeling it.

Particularly not as she had spent the summer determined to get into shape, swimming 30-50 lengths three times a week (and every day on holiday), not to mention occasionally bypassing the camembert and brie.

"Yes," she snapped.  Notice I do this third person thing when I don't come out of a situation glowingly. "And her tummy is mostly wobbly because it's had you three in it!"

There.  That really told them.

It was on a par with them discussing the fact that Daddy could never have head-lice because his hairs weren't close enough together.  Must admit that caused me a small amount of chortlement.

Or when they decided that Nano looked exactly like Mummy only one hundred times wrinklier.

So, I look forward to turning into a wobblier, wrinklier version of myself as the years pass by; and for it not to be acknowledged openly by my children as they gradually become more diplomatic versions of themselves.  (Or possibly not, in Eddie's case.)



Currently Reading: A Possible Life by Sebastian Faulks