Lately, there has been a bit of tension in our household. A bit of bickering. My husband and I have been having petty little arguments here and there about this and that, and conversation between the two of us has been short and somewhat snappy.
It’s fair to say, we haven’t really been the best of friends.
We’ve tried to keep it out of earshot of the children, but it came to bit of a head whilst we were on holiday in Devon, with some lovely friends, and all our lovely children. You see, like a lot of people, Ross and I tend to get stressed out with each other in the car, with directions and parking spaces, and when to ignore the sat-nav.
So there we were, driving around Bude, in convoy with our friends, looking for somewhere to park up so we could have a mosey round the shops and grab an ice cream.
Today I took dinner round to our friends who’ve just had their third baby. The new addition is totes adorbs! I got both cuddles AND broody. Score!
But meeting one of the newest people in the World isn’t the point of this post, nay, more the conversation I had with my daughter before she went to bed this evening. Picture the scene, Roo and I are lounging on the sofa, looking at some photos of me and Ross, and her, and my Dad, when she asks me:
“Mummy, where is Elliot in that photo?”
“He wasn’t made yet, poppet, you were a tiny baby then”
She ponders this thought for a moment, and her mind is clearly blown. He wasn’t made yet? But.. but… WHAT? Then comes the question that all parents dread. The five words that render mums and dads everywhere into embarrassed, gibbering imbeciles.
“Mummy, how are babies made?”
Ross has been unwell this week. He’s been struck down in the pribe-ob-libe, with a very nasty bout of tonsillitis, and since we are forced into having a family bed by our snuggly children, I figured he’d get a better night’s kip if he and Ruby swapped bedrooms whilst he got better.
As you can imagine, Ruby was THRILLED at the idea of getting to sleep in mummy’s bed.
And it was working out fine, until last night, when we heard her scurrying about upstairs.
Roo and I were talking about babies this morning whilst I was making Elliot peanut butter toast. This is a fairly common topic in our household, especially as her best friend’s mum is just about due with her third. She’d just done up her jelly sandals when the following conversation occured:
Roo: Mummy, I am going to have some more jelly shoes when I am a big grown up mummy like you.
I quite often find money on the street, usually just very small change, but sometimes the nice heavier coins, and once or twice, I’ve even spotted a note (£20 once – SCORE). I always pick them up, well, it’s not like the owner is coming back for 20p, is it?
“Find a penny, pick it up, and all the day you’ll have good luck” and all that jazz.
Lately, my Granny has taken it upon herself to teach Ruby little nursery rhymes. It’s really quite sweet, she used to teach me the same ones when I was a little girl, way back in the late eighties.
One particular rhyme is about Little Jenny Wren, a bird who gets sick and is nursed back to health with cake and wine by some kind of Florence Nightingale of the bird world, Robin Red Breast.