Poor Egg. His play date has been hijacked by Dumpie.
So as his school mate and little brother play upstairs, he watches a movie by himself in the front room...having been comforted by a homemade peanut butter cookie, a bit of a cuddle and a knowing sigh from Mama.
We're on half-term holiday at the moment - which would be tolerable were it not for the evil cold that has decimated me for the past ten days. All I want to do is crawl into bed with a box of tissues, a good ol' cheesy movie from the 80's ('Father of the Bride' will do...) and some extra-strength cold and flu Nurofen. Sadly, my up-the-duff state renders the last option impossible - but then again three boys under seven currently trashing the bedroom upstairs at the moment renders the first two laughable.
On the domestic front we've had big news this past week. Egg finally lost his other front tooth (for which i was mightily relieved as it's crooked, hanging stance made him look like he'd just washed up from a farm in Iowa or something...I almost yanked it out myself several times in a stylist intervention.) Fortunately, his lifelong belief in the tooth fairy was salvaged by the sudden last minute recollection early Saturday morning of yours truly, that Dada and I had forgotten to place the requisite £5 note under his pillow and nick the tooth. Oops. So I nudged Dada awake and grabbed onto Egg's leg, tickling and distracting him for the better part of five minutes while the husband did the deed. Whew.
In other news, besides having belted a fellow student only days before, Dumpie surprised us all by bringing home a coveted bright green 'Achievement Award' signed and presented to him by the head teacher in assembly. I had to double check the name and make sure he hadn't swiped if off another kid (as he has inexplicably been bringing home his best friend's artwork for several days now) - but no...it was his. Go figure.
The day before school broke up for half-term holiday, I overheard one of the mothers in the playground saying that she had spent her only day off that week looking for a costume for 'Roman Day' for her son. I of course had not. Foolishly I had taken the husband's enthusiasm for 'Roman Day' the previous week to mean that he was not only going to sort Egg out with a costume, but magically morph into a super-stylist designer to boot.
That would explain why Friday morning saw us snapping at each other while I tried to fashion some red wrapping paper and a bin lid into a formidable shield, and the husband tried to sew a silk red pillowcase onto one of my Bali shirt dresses - the thing hanging limply off his shoulders like a tragic afterthought.
We got there in the end. We always do somehow. And the teacher even congratulated him on his 'inventive' costume, posing for a picture all the while shooting me a look which seemed to convey the fact that she knew that I had not, like my friend, spent a whole day sourcing an authentic gladiator costume.
Fair enough. I suck at costumes - my fashion know-how does not, unfortunately extend to children's dress up. (I got through university costume balls by doing what every other girl in residence did - dressing up like some sort of barbie doll, middle class hooker....).
Anyway, I had better go and explore what's happening upstairs. It wouldn't surprise me if Dumpie had tied up Egg's friend in the bathroom or something and was lording it over him with a sword or a foam dart gun. It truly wouldn't.