Different Colour Pens

 Eddie has just revealed a secret about his homework.

I don't know whether to be shocked by his deception or admiring of his ingenuity.

Before I explain, I need you to know that this confession has an important caveat: Eddie is, without question, a bookworm - and in any hours where he is not allowed on his tablet or the PlayStation he will be found with his head in a book.  I'm just saying...

So, he is required to complete his reading journal each week, updating it with the titles of books he is reading, perhaps the number of pages, and some comment about the book.

As third child, he is often left to fend for himself and doesn't have quite the level of attention that his siblings might have done, but for once I remembered to check up on the reading journal.

'Have you filled it in for this week?  Your teacher would like to see them on Monday.'

'Yes, don't worry, it's all up to date.'

'Oh, good.'

'Yeah, once a week I just fill it up with random titles that I've been reading. I put lots of entries and use different colour pens so that she thinks I've done it on different days.'

Help. I now can't unhear that disclosure.

Currently reading: My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

Fluent in Dubby Dubby

Whilst Eddie's linguistic skills come on apace, Gilby's seem to be regressing.

Since starting school, he has acquired the ability to communicate in 'Dubby dubby': a nonsense language that contains a number of incomprehensible (to me, anyway) words; many of which sound remarkably like 'dubby'.

It is also important that he insult any (male) friend with a compound image involving the word, 'poo'. A conversation at the school gates might go something like this:

Gilby: Bye bye poo-poo-head.

Friend: Bye bye nicompoop-poo.

Gilby: See you tomorrow silly-poo-face.

Friend: You too, poo-poo-pop.

And they giggle and wave at each other as they depart, no sign of any animostity between them.

I always smile, uncertainly, at the inevitably middle-class looking mum whose son is the recipient of these terms of endearment, and comment on how well they seem to be getting along. They usually tend to hurry in the opposite direction.

If I suggest quietly to Gilby that it might be a good idea not to shout so loudly or indeed add the word 'poo' to everything he says, the response is very likely to be something along the lines of "Dubby, dubby, Mummy nicompoo-poo."

Eddie, in the corner quietly scribbling on my freshly-painted dresser with his fat felt-tips, might comment, "Gilby's talking nonsense again, Mummy," and my two-year-old and I will shrug together and share a moment of collective eyes raised to heaven before I throttle him for graffiti-ing the kitchen again.

Markin'

I have been terribly neglectful of my blog of late, and whilst I have occasionally popped along to read and comment on some from time to time, it has been furtively and with a slightly guilty conscience.

This is because I am in the midst of marking A-level papers. Nearly three hundred of them: something that I used to find difficult and a burden before children, let alone with two of the small people around. The idea is that it is, at my own behest, supposed to be paying for our lovely summer holiday to France. The reality is that it has taken over my life and I will need a holiday more than ever at the end of it. And why did I pick a World Cup year? That coincided with Wimbledon and the one day cricket series against Australia?

The structure of my day has changed dramatically. I have to do a couple of hours in the morning before everyone else gets up, then work through the evening after the kids have gone to bed, perhaps sneaking in a couple during the bedtime hour whilst Gertie and Gilby are otherwise engaged with Peppa Pig, 64 Zoo Lane and occasionally In the Night Garden (though Gertie only 'tolerates' Upsy Daisy et al these days, for the sake of Gilby).

So Gertie sees me sitting at the dining table, red pen poised, quite a lot at the moment. Especially if she happens to wake up early and see a light on downstairs. The initially repeated, "What are you doing, Mummy?" has been substituted for, "Are you 'markin' again Mummy?"

'Markin' has now become one of her favourite games. Pen in hand she will take herself off quietly somewhere and go 'markin'. The back of an envelope or Daddy's latest print out of World Cup scores will become well and truly...marked. It has also become an excuse for not doing other things. (How quickly she emulates her mother's behaviour.) "No, I can't tidy up those things, I'm afraid, I'm markin". She has the degree of concentration just right, and embarks on it with a relish that has begun to wane in me.

As of today, 80 more scripts to go; shame I can't give her a few...

Pencil Power

Gertie found a great new game today.

At first I thought it was really sweet.

She found all the pens and pencils from my pen pot in the kitchen, then lined them up on one of the kitchen chairs, and with a tea towel, tucked them all in to bed. She spoke tenderly to every one individually, commenting on how tired they were and how much sleep they needed.

"Ah, my darling little girl," I sighed to myself, as I got on with my household chores, going past every now and then with a basket of washing or a pile of clean clothes to put away.

It was only later I discovered why the pens and pencils were all so tired, poor things. And I got very, very cross indeed. They were tired because they had been 'climbing up the walls'. The long, arduous climb for the poor pens and pencils involved lots and lots of scribble. And that, therefore, added to the days chores as I spent most of the afternoon scrubbing off as much as I could.

I am guessing that this won't be the last time it happens.