Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Mummy's boy

Boys definitely mature slower than girls.  This has become plainly obvious to me, having had two girls followed by a boy.  Looking back, I expected so much more of my daughters at the age of ten than I know my son is capable of at the same age.  The girls were able to organise themselves, do their homework, bath themselves and if they had to put the toilet seat down before they left the bathroom, I'm pretty sure they would have!

After my disastrous "holiday" a few weeks ago, I breathed a gentle sigh of relief when it came time for them to go back to school.  I ironed everything the night before, got up early and made lunches, got breakfast organised while they all got themselves ready and was sure that on their first day back they would leave on time.  And that's how it would've been if No 1 Son had had two laces in his pair of shoes, instead of just one lace in one shoe and none in the other.  To the screams of the girls yelling, "Hurry up, we're going to be late", I ran upstairs where I had a spare pair - a spare pair of rugby laces.  After frantically lacing the shoe, I realised they were ridiculously long and I had to race to the corner shop.  There I found they had brown shoe laces but not the required black shoe laces.  I bought the brown, laced up the shoe and realised he looked just as ridiculous. I then remembered I had an old pair of school shoes at home, scooted home, unlaced, re-laced and drove to school with a few minutes to spare and without giving myself a coronary but only just.

Since that disastrous first day, it has been two weeks of similar, unforetold calamities but this afternoon takes the cake.  He came home WITH a split lip, but WITHOUT his wet swimmers which he left laying in the street, WITHOUT a brand new pair of rugby socks and WITH somebody elses trumpet!  We then had to turn around, go back to the school to look for the missing clothing.  We returned WITH the wet swimmers but WITHOUT the brand new pair of rugby socks.  The trumpet we'll have to deal with tomorrow.

And Supportive Husband No 1 wonders why he finds me sitting in a corner dribbling and incoherant when he comes home from work!

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