A Variation On 'The Dog Ate My Homework'

As a teacher, I have heard every excuse for late or missing homework over more than two decades.

At home, I'm very good at checking on the homework produced by Gertie. Obviously I want her to succeed and all, but I also don't want her to get into trouble with any of my colleagues now that she is in secondary school. Might be a bit awkward. It helps that she is relatively organised, and that the homework is emailed to me directly as well as to her through the school's automated system.

Gilby isn't so good at motivating himself to do anything that isn't football, so I've also had half an eye on his homework over the years and we've had a number of Sunday afternoon 'prompts'. (He might call them 'rows'.)

But in the tradition of third children having to fend for themselves, it seems I have rather abandoned Eddie - and so he's had to organise himself for a while. And when I say 'a while' that probably means his entire school career after the first fortnight.

But it's holiday time and Christmas is all wrapped up, so I thought it would be good to show interest.  It provoked mixed feelings, therefore, when I came across this little gem in his homework book this morning:

Didn't seem quite fair to berate him for the spelling, missed capitals, etc. There is something refreshingly - and frighteningly - honest about seven-year-olds.

Currently reading: Things A Bright Girl Can Do by Sally Nicholls

The Angel Gabriel Bit Me Once

"The Angel Gabriel bit me once..."

Those immortal words were uttered by Gertie, whilst watching her little brother perform in the (unsatisfyingly small - am I allowed to say that?) role of 'Courtier Number Two' in the KS2 nativity last week. It was the usual novel re-framing of the Christmas story, (even though this is a church school so you'd think that a 'straight' version would be encouraged). This year's was The Magical Jigsaw Puzzle.

We were commenting on how good the girl playing Gabriel was (very large role; her mother must have been pleased).

It's not the sort of behaviour you expect from God's messenger, frankly. Gertie explained that way back in the days when she was at primary school (like, last term), she was assigned as the girl's 'buddy'. Not an easy mission, given the biting.

Still, just goes to show.  Not sure what, but I'm sure it shows something. I'd love to include a picture of the biting archangel, but photographing other people's children is definitely frowned upon; so I'll concentrate on my own.

Eddie certainly made the most of Courtier Number Two, delivering all six lines with volume and expression. And helping out other members of the cast with theirs - whether they wanted him to or not, frankly.

Last day of term. Only the 'reindeer cones' for sale on the playground and PTA 'lucky dip' to dodge at pick up this afternoon and we are there. And so, as Tiny Tim said, "A Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us, every one!"

Currently reading: The End We Start From by Megan Hunter

More Tooth Fairy Troubles

Eddie lost his first 'legitimate' tooth yesterday. (I don't think having one knocked out in an incident at school really counts?)

Said tooth was carefully placed in a cup for safekeeping. Said cup was then carefully washed and put away. Accidentally. 

"Never mind," said Eddie, pragmatically. "I have a plan!"

Top marks for resourcefulness. Dropped a few for spelling and punctuation.

In the midst of Goodwood Revival madness in our house this weekend, the situation got forgotten, until I remembered at about 6am this morning. I snuck in with a pound, but was unable to retrieve the correspondence. 

Eddie was confused. "I've got a pound...but the fairy hasn't taken the letter! Why not? And if they didn't take the letter, how did they know?"

"Um....I think tooth fairies just know when teeth fall out. And perhaps the letter was too...large for them to take."

Very few marks for resourcefulness. Dropped marks for forgetfulness.

No longer smashing parenting.

Currently reading: Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

From In The Navy To Being Marooned

Today was a big day: Gertie's transition from primary to secondary school.

I don't think I got upset back when any of the kids first started in reception. I was happy that they didn't cry and actually wanted to go, and I don't remember it being hard to deal with. In fact, each time one of them started school I actually think I was happy to have reduced the nursery bill. And when Eddie went to school and the kiddivoucher payments finally stopped so that I was back to full salary, it was brilliant.

And I was working at the end of last term so I didn't get to do all the end of year assembly stuff that they do to mark the end of primary school. Hearth father went and found it all a little bit emosh, but it all sort of passed me by. I was pleased that at 'prom' she still wanted a quite girly dress, unlike some of her friends who looked far too sexy for eleven. She looked beautiful and grown up and dignified.

But this morning was a big deal. For her, it definitely was. All her clothes were laid out the night before. There was a lot of preparation. I got a big squeezy cuddle behind closed doors but a cool blown kiss once we were in the street and I fear that is how it will be from now on. I didn't expect it to be quite such a big deal for me though, to feel quite so emotional this morning; it kind of hit me from nowhere: My little girl is really grown up and confidently moving on.

I took her for an ice cream at the end of the day though.

Tooth Fairy Needs to Remortgage

Gertie begins her secondary school adventure in the morning. Her clothes are laid out ready, the new blazer has its purple flash sewn on denoting her new house colours, the shoes are polished, the school bag and PE kit packed. 

But that's not the story. No, the story is that Mother Nature has picked tonight for Gertie to lose three teeth. In the space of about eight minutes. And a fourth is very wobbly and painful. Calpol required. 

So now, anxious to create a good impression tomorrow, she will in fact resemble a pirate - or a geriatric - every time she opens her mouth.

More to the point, we've had to make an emergency trip to the bank to fund the fallout.

C'est la vie.

Currently reading: Imagine Me Gone by Adam Haslett

School Uniform: The Holy Grail

Smashing parenting today!

This comes with an exclamation mark as it is not a claim I am often able to make. Did I say 'often'? I meant 'ever'. But today is the day.

Let me explain. We are in the final days of the summer holidays and so comes the inevitable uniform buying, gathering, labelling nightmare.

Gertie is going to secondary school which means that she is starting from scratch. Blazer, two polo shirts and the skirt come to eighty quid, and we haven't got as far as shoes or PE kit yet, so this time of year is laden with expense as well as stress. 

The boys won't stop growing, and although Eddie, being number three, essentially lives in hand-me-downs, there is still an awful lot of 'naming' to be done on uniform. This has always filled me with horror. I am not a lover of sewing. The iron-in labels are fiddly and horrible. A biro doesn't quite cut it in the leafy lanes of rural West Sussex. It takes hours and I hate it. Usually. 

But finally, after eleven years of parenting I have made an investment and found the answer. The philosopher's stone, the Holy Grail. It is transformative. Totally life-changing.

This is so not a sponsored post as I am simply not important enough to do that, so I shall refrain from naming the company involved. It wasn't cheap because I had to buy three of them. But I can now stamp their names on to their uniform, This makes it fun. 

Even Gilby's socks have received the treatment. Yes, his socks! Look:

I know. Go me, go me, go me.

Best £44 I have ever spent!

Currently reading:

This is going to hurt by Adam Kay

Girlfriends and Gambling

Eddie had a night out with his 'girlfriend' last weekend.

Yes, Eddie is six.

It gets worse: They went (with her family) to Goodwood and enjoyed an evening of racing. Ahem.  So, he's starting young with the women and gambling. I entrusted five pounds to the care of  Isla's parents so that they could place some bets.

Eddie, of course, won on the first race. £7. So ten minutes in and he has more than doubled his money. Uh oh. He loses on every other race of the night, but is still 'up' at the end. He comes home lofting a precious five pound note high in the air.

"Look at the money I won!" he says.

"And where's the five pounds that Mum gave you to start with?"

"Isla's parents have that. You'll have to ask them. This bit's mine. I won it."

Right.

He had two very late nights in a row. (Well, it's still the summer holidays...) because the following evening he was at a family party. He came home shattered, and, relenting for once, I cuddled him up the stairs to bed. 

"You said I was too heavy to carry up the stairs any more..." he observed, sleepily, cheek pressed into my shoulder.

"Well, just this once, as you are so exhausted," I soothed.

"Yes, I'm much lighter when I'm tired, aren't I?"

Can't fault this boy's logic.




Currently reading: Eileen by Ottessa Moshfegh

The Last Lap

Eddie sat on my lap this morning, unprompted, to read a book and do a puzzle. He just tapped my legs for me to  uncross them and climbed up. It was a nice feeling and it suddenly occurred to me that it had been the first time he has done that for a while. I breathed in the still-babyish smell at the back of his neck greedily. He probably thinks that his mother is a weirdo.

He turns seven at the end of September, but has always been much littler than his siblings were at the same age, so he still gets carried up to bed sometimes, or picked up towards the end of a long walk. I wasn't physically able to carry Gertie or Gilby at the same age. It has been a long, long time since one of them sat on my lap. So it strikes me that I am on the countdown for lap-sitting. 

I hope that wasn't the last one.

The Inflatables

Eddie is obsessed with The Incredibles, and thinks that he can run as fast as Dash. One of our first activities of the holidays was going to see The Incredibles 2 at the little cinema in Bognor.

Our trip to France has been more like the yet-to-be-made film, The Inflatables. Much of the action takes place poolside. So far there have been several rounds of the newly invented game 'Banana Interceptor' which is essentially a version of Piggy In The Middle with the addition of a giant inflatable banana as an additional tool for the Piggy.

Poor old inflatable turtle lost a limb, and was given a water burial, complete with prayers and incantations. 

And then the game of 'Edge Ball' emerged. This involves players taking it in turns to throw a ball to hit the opposite edge of the swimming pool where, if it catches the edge, it will bounce up into the air so that either player can catch it. Two points scored for catching your own edge ball, one point for catching your opponent's. Skilful and entertaining, the game has kept Gilby occupied for hours with his  father or his uncle. And, the best edgeballers 'don't get wet', apparently. Funny then, that I seemed to be being continually splashed poolside...

So. Much fun being had by all. Hearth-mother busy consuming lashing of rosé.

Currently reading: The Accidental by Ali Smith

Bouncing

I'm putting these two photographs together because they are two separate but connected memories that I felt compelled to revisit and write about again:


I hold your hand.

You aren't sure about this. You don't like the sand clinging to your socks. It bothers your sense of order and rightness. And the mountainous heights of the bouncy pillow are intimidating. But you do want the fun, or the promise of it, and so you are quite determined as you reach for the brightly coloured fabric.

We climb up together. I have to haul you up the steep last part because you can't keep your balance. We don't bounce, as such. I tread carefully until you wobble a little and giggle, and then I run faster; chasing you and bouncing you until you shriek. Another little girl gets on. She is tentative like you but you are now the strong, experienced one and you let her find her feet on the bouncy pillow and then you become her big friendly bouncer and you both laugh and shout and tumble and stumble and pick each other up when you collapse, limbs knotted, flopping in helpless laughter.

The rhythm changes; the game changes. Somehow, you both instinctively know the rules without stating them. Whose turn to run, whose turn to chase, who is leading and who is following. Two perfect strangers enjoying the perfect bounce.

Eventually it must end: the bouncing as though your childhood depended on it.

“Goodbye,” you say, to your new buddy. “It was nice bouncing with you.”

She nods, solemnly. “You too. Bye bouncy friend.”

And you walk in different directions.

I help you put your shoes back on. You don't seem to mind the sand now. I marvel at the ease of a friendship between three-year-olds that only needs a shared passion for buoyancy.

We return regularly. It is a few years later. Now you have have progressed to the giant bouncy pillow and it is energetic and competitive. We still hold hands but only to see who is bouncing highest. You win. You weigh nothing, you walk on air anyway, and l...I am carry too many pounds and worried about my pelvic floor. Click. The mobile phone captures the moment. I frame it. On the wall and in my heart.

‘Nice bouncing with you,’ I say, all the time learning.






Currently reading: Five Rivers Met on a Wooded Plain by Barney Norris

Most Likely To...

Gertie has had her end of term leavers' assembly amidst plenty of tears, shirt-signing and nostalgic stories about the last seven years.

She has gone from this....

To this...

In what seems like the blink of an eye. Tempus has certainly been fugiting.

Meanwhile, Gilby received this end of term of award, much to his delight:

And this one:

No question about how his identity is being constructed!

And now the long summer holiday lies ahead, with all its promise and adventure.

Phase One begins this evening with a trip to the cinema to see The Incredibles. This is Eddie's treat for being 'good' for ten days in a row. And by 'good' I mean putting on his shoes without fuss or argument when told to leave the house and not going into meltdown at bedtime. Sigh. One small step at a time.

Currently reading: Slade House by David Mitchell 

Different Success Criteria

It has been a good weekend in the Hearth-house. Gertie and Gilby have successfully taken part in the final performances of the school play, Bugsy Malone to great critical acclaim. (From Hearth-mother and Hearth-father at least.)

Gertie has enjoyed her Year 6 prom and all the associated pomp and circumstance, including mini manicure, pedicure and 'waterfall plaits' whatever that may mean. We did have conversations like this, though:

Gertie: Mummy, what was your prom dress like when you were in Year 6?

Hearth-mother: Prom dress, darling? Oh no, we didn't have such things. Proms, or nice dresses. My parents were mostly dressing me in tartan and making me match my siblings...

Gilby has this morning received the 'player of the year' award for his football team and is marching around as though he as won the World Cup. The coach credited his hard work, captaincy skills and being a great 'reader of the game'.

And Eddie? 

Well, results for him to. He is still alive, narrowly escaping being throttled at several points through the weekend, and I ended up not phoning the police yesterday when I thought he was missing. Different levels of success...

Currently reading: Why Mummy Swears by Gill Sims

World Cup Fever

Sport rules right now.

The house sweepstake is going well. Good teams are evenly distributed so everyone still interested. Hearth-mother looking good with Belgium, Sweden, Denmark, Columbia and Mexico!

Not that Gilby needs any more stimulus, frankly. Old Statto can tell you the points in each group, the results  of each match, the goal scorers in each game and plenty of other trivia besides. To enliven things even further (as Germany go out in the group stages for the first time ever) we are hosting a German guest in the house this week so massive bragging rights result.

Today was also Gilby's sports day and he was on the winning relay team; his and Gertie's house team won the cup; and his U9 cricket squad are unbeaten in six games.

England cricket has been quite joyful in recent weeks. There is nothing but sport done or talked of at the moment.

So I'm getting in on the action. Hearth-mother has been asked to fill in for a netball team who are a player short tonight. The last time I did this was just before Christmas and I ended up in hospital. Just hoping that I, too, can ride the crest of this current sporting wave and make it through at least a quarter!

Hot and Cold

It was a birthday weekend of sun and fun with soaring temperatures and 'Wanda' as our home from home for the weekend. (Wanda, being a VW camper van.) I'm not sure they were built for a family of five plus pet. It was a bit of a squash and a squeeze...

but the children slept with Hearth-dog in a tent annexe (which felt like Wembley Stadium in comparison) so all worked out beautifully. 

A forgotten sleeping bag complicated arrangements for Sunday evening, and it seemed odd to receive a winter coat as a birthday present on the hottest day of the year so far (though it was the one I wanted, not complaining.) 

On Monday we spent the day at Shoreham beach, and Gilby, never one to run from a challenge, was first to dive into the waves.

His bold action occurred as Hearth-Father exclaimed, 'That's freezing! Only a lunatic would swim in there!' 

'Time for a beach selfie,' said Hearth-Mother, desperate to capture photographic evidence of the whole family having fun together.

'No, Mum, I'm too cold,' protested Gilby through blue lips, goosebumps visible from twenty paces.

'Won't take a second, and then you can warm up.'

'Ok, but I might be blurry..' shivered Gilby.

Happy Hour

It was a hot day.

Eddie was a long time in the kitchen and some worrying noises were emanating from behind the door. But he'd only asked if he could help himself to a drink. What could possibly be the issue?

At the point at which my interior monologue was suggesting that I ought to be on the verge of conducting an investigation, he emerged.

'Just making myself a little drink,' he grinned. 'Like I said.'

'MUM!' Gertie yelled. 'Eddie's cut up a lemon with the apple slice!'

You can't argue with his commitment. Though I have no idea where he has the idea that an afternoon refreshment needs to look like something that might be served by members of the Human League in Leicester Square. My similes are a little out of date. Something that would be presented during happy hour in the Atlantic Bar? Just googled that and it apparently closed in 2006. (I don't get out much, these days.) 

But what inspired him? No idea at all. Can't think where he gets it from. Nothing to see here. 

*Whistles innocently.

LegoPlannedLand

After the hell of Peppa Pig World as a treat for the big kids when Eddie was born, it has taken six years for me to summon the willpower, not to mention secure the finances, to venture to another theme park. 

I hate them. I really do. I hate all the other people who cheerfully go. I hate the herding. I despise the queue 'disguising' (that jaw-dropping disappointment as you turn what you think is the final corner only to find another one hundred people waiting ahead of you). I cringe at the cynical purchase positioning of themed toys at every opportunity, designed to make you look like mean parents for denying. I could easily go on.

So, what we thought we would do is pick the UK's busiest theme park, Legoland, for a visit during the school holidays. Yes, we know how to play it.

So, I had mentally prepared myself for the queues. But at Legoland there was even a queue for the toilets all day long. (In one building two out of the ten cubicles were out of order.)

And a disappointment was that the funicular train ride wasn't operating. A leftover from the Windsor Safari Park days I had a nostalgic desire to travel the hill this way (Worthy of a £5 discount, surely, since everything is commodified? More on that, later, in the 'lessons'.)

We had done quite a bit of research, got there for opening, knew to head to the back of the park first and had a plan of action. Here is what we achieved, in order, with wait times in brackets:  The Dragon (30 minutes), Jolly Rocker (10 minutes), Coastguard (30 minutes), Driving Licence (40 minutes - but we tag teamed the queuing so that these two, which were next to each other, overlapped), Fire Academy (45 minutes), Ninjago (40 minutes), Scarab bouncers (15 minutes) GameZone (10 minutes), Pirate Falls (35 minutes), Viking River Splash (25 minutes), Jolly Rocker (again, 10 minutes), Atlantis (30 minutes), Mia's Riding Adventure (25 minutes), The Dragon (again, 15 minutes), Spinning Spider (15 minutes).

We were there when they opened the gates, and left as they closed them, so of the eight and a half hours in Windor, six and a quarter were spent in a queue.

I am embracing a growth mindset, so this is what I have learned:

Four Lessons of Legoland 

1. Take oodles of snacks and eat in the queue. There's no time for slacking. Or lunch. Through the gate at 10am, by midday we had completed just four rides. If you can keep that pace up all day long then it averages three pounds per ride per person, assuming some vouchers have been used to enter - and as long as you just don't stop. Longest queue in the Easter holidays on a cold and dreary day was 75 minutes.

2. Play the 'no more money' mission. After extortionate admission fees, there are fleecing opportunities at every turn. £6 for the parking. £12 for a photo lanyard upon achieving your 'driving licence' in Lego City. £10 for your photo on 'The Dragon', or any other of the big rides.£12.50 for a refillable drinks bottle on entry. It was a nightmarish consumer frenzy. There are fairground-type stalls where you can 'win' big cuddly things for hooking a duck at £5 a pop. We made it part of the day's proceedings not to spend a penny more than the entrance. (It's obscene that the Ninjago Ride disgorges into the Ninjago shop.)

3. Bring alcohol. It's the only way to survive the hell. Children make good mules as their small backpacks are innocent-looking. Consumption in a queue is frowned upon, however.

4. Bring a supply of plastic covering for the wet rides. (To avoid the £2 charge for a family dryer and £3.50 for a Legoland poncho.) Or, as Gertie put it, "Three pounds fifty for a yellow bin bag? You're having a laugh!"

So, don't tell anyone but I quite enjoyed myself on the Dragon and the Jolly Rocker, and my favourite, Mia's Riding Adventure. And, apart from a slightly stressful moment in the unavoidable Ninjago shop where I had to wrestle some polystyrene nunchaku from a determined six-year-old, the kids were patient and well-behaved throughout.

But my best moment of the day was on departure when Eddie said, "I really did think that there would be more Lego..."

Rubik Jubilation

There are many unsolved puzzles in our house: why Crunchy Nut cornflakes seem to disappear overnight (other cereals are not affected); how it is possible that I have over one hundred odd boys' socks (not even hyperbole); why the remote control is male-gendered (read 'Hearth-Father-controlled'); why there seems to be genuine confusion over the precise meaning of the word, 'now' (unless delivered at a hundred decibels through gritted teeth). But, one mystery has finally been solved.

Gilby has persevered and solved his Rubik's cube. 

It has taken five months. Tears, tantrums, slammed doors. It has tested the patience of both Hearth-parents. 

But, finally, there was jubilation in the Hearth-household last night. 

Algorithms have not yet been learned by heart, and we are a long way from a record-breaking time, but  'tis done, and for that I am grateful. 

Currently reading: The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead

Stop Press! Family Eats Out In Restaurant Without Row

It has taken the best part of eleven years, but we have finally achieved what seemed an impossible dream: a pleasurable family restaurant meal!

Conditions were good. Children had been for a swim so they were tired, and enjoyed an early Easter egg hunt, so that they were content. We picked a local Italian restaurant where the barman was superb. He allowed Eddie to 'sample' different cordials until he was 'happy' with his drink, then brought him some colouring pencils and a menu to colour in.

The children's meals were actually of a decent size so that they were full by the time they had finished. So much so that Eddie was unable to eat his pudding, and even Gilby's (aka Mr Creosote) hollow legs were full up. 

And the wine was excellent which helped Hearth-mother and Hearth-father's convivial moods. There was no one out of their seat, no spilled drinks, dropped cutlery, farting, belching, pinching, kicking or otherwise typical behaviour. No hissed warnings through gritted teeth, or threats that someone might be eating in the car. 

Now, we had better practise again, (to make sure it wasn't a fluke! 😉)

Another Budding Literary Career

Following in the footsteps of Great-Hearth-Aunt, Eddie's literary exploits continue to exceed expectation. Next week his riddle poem is published in Young Writers - Little Riddlers South East Poets. Today, his classmates helped performed a song about a penguin that he had written. Given Eddie's already well-developed propensity for self-promotion, these latest achievements make him nearly unbearable. In fact, he was most put-out that the class were only going to sing one verse during the assembly when he had gone to the trouble of writing a whole two more. Didn't they know who he was?

It was a treat to watch this assembly as all three of them were actually recognised. Gilby as a maths champion and Gertie for last weekend's swimathon where the team of six swam 117 lengths in an hour. Proud mummy moments.

How to Write a Good...Blarb

The writing theme continues in one of my favourite moments from Mothers' Day. In a clear step up from text messages, Eddie made a card for me. It was a card with a difference, though: It had its own, erm, 'blarb'.

In case your deciphering-a 6-year-old's-handwriting-spectacles are not to hand, it says:

Small boy cald Freddie rites mothers day card to his mum.

And there's not really much to argue with about that. Killer blurb-writing, I say.

In place of the usual flowers or chocolates, my gift was a brown moleskin notebook. They know me well, this family of mine. But another treat of the day was watching Eddie and Gertie perform in an Irish dancing version of Grease. Yes, you did read that right.

Mini-Danny definitely enjoyed having his Pink Ladies in tow.

And, finally, Hearth-Father got to celebrate too, with the keenly anticipated arrival of a hot-off-the-press memoir detailing his mother's childhood in India - courtesy of Great-Hearth-Aunt! Stories of his mother and her sisters dodging cobra-bites, collecting pods from the Tamarind tree, playing with pet goats and riding in a gharry provided welcome insight into his roots. Hearth-Father, it seems, is descended from three generations who served the Raj.

Currently reading: Front Verandah - Back Verandah by Anne Grieger. (When I can wrestle it from Hearth-Father.)

Modern Hieroglyphics

I received my first ever text message from Eddie whilst I was away with work in Uganda. Before I left we watched The Emoji Movie, which might explain some of the influences, but it took a little deciphering:

And whilst the English teacher in me has a few issues with spelling here, I loved the progress that had been made by the second! Just need to work on Geography now.

Future Careers

Gertie has announced, from the lofty position of Year 6, that she would like to be a 'human rights' lawyer.

I think she might be actually be headed into discrimination and gender equality law. This term's topic at school is 'Explorers', and asked to choose from the list of famous explorer names on the board one to research independently, she immediately raised her hand and asked why they were all male.

Then, this afternoon I went to pick her up from 'Girls' Football' club after school. I wondered why she looked completely dry given the drizzle. 'Oh no, we played in the hall because it was wet. We can't play outside when it is wet because we only do football on the playground, not on the field.' I enquired as to whether this was the same for the boys.

'No. But don't worry, Mum, I'm already planning to raise it at school council next week...' 🙂

Still we've come a long way since the Intelligent Parents' Manual of 1944, where I have reached this little gem: 

Currently reading: All That Man Is by David Szalay

Vicious Viscosity

So, what sadist designed this little package?

John Adams, whoevever he be, has a sense of humour.

Gilby and Eddie were, of course, desperate to get involved in this little box of goodies. And, in a titanically bad bit of planning where I had a double play date for Gertie on the last day of the holidays (and I badly needed to mark books and plan lessons), I agreed. Seven plus. Should be fine for a reasonably intelligent eight-year-old and his six-year-old brother, I thought. How bad can it be? 

Now, I should know by now, that whenever I cheerfully have the 'how bad can it be?' thought, the answer is always, 'Very bad indeed'. I had, of course, neglected to notice that the large '7+' on the box actually had an 'under adult supervision' tag line in the instructions themselves.

Thus far we have fart-powder, snot and tears (though I don't think tears were actually one of the chemical compounds). Not to mention one ruined carpet, towel and washing up sponge. That snot is viscous. Not to mention vicious. And there are still far too many pots and potions and unused things left over for my liking.

Eddie's cuteness whilst wearing the safety goggles, and Gilby's earnestness in correctly following the instructions, are the only reasons they remain alive today.

Currently reading: Crooked Heart by Lissa Evans