Dentist at 10am (for me), Josh wants a doona day, cleaners are due, washing out of control, swimming lesson night, bookclub after that (if I am still alive).
I think (foolishly) what a great opportunity for Josh and I to get a start on his transport project. Due for presentation next Monday.
|Fierce isn't it?|
Joshie says "no". His teacher said not to do Powerpoint. When I asked why, he wasn't sure. But there was no way he was touching it.
Ok, deep breath.
I say "Joshie, gorgeous, determined little lad, shall you write down everything we discover together on this handy sheet your teacher has given us and thusly turn the most pertinent facts thereof into a charming report."
Joshie says "no". His teacher told him not to use the sheet because it had to be on a poster or something the class could see and she could put on display.
I say, "Joshie, for Christ's sake, can we at least do something because I've already spent twice as much time on the Hercules Transport aircraft as I ever wanted or expected to do, and my meagre store of patience is really starting to run low."
Joshie says "no". And begins to cry. And as I drop my face into my hands in frustration and count to ten, I realise he would rather face me in anger than his teacher even slightly disappointed. And he'd rather please her than me. And when it comes to it, if I said black, and she said white, it would be white all the way for Josh. I know my place.
We abandon Hercules and set off to Issy's tennis lesson. Josh in tears partly because of the project and partly because he "never gets to play". Loving mother that I am, I told him to suck it up because I never get to play either and this is what life's about, doing stuff all day that you'd really rather give a miss and once you're a grown up you never, ever have fun ever again.
I think I might have been a bit tough on the poor chap. Not to mention untruthful.
Wracked with guilt, I visited the teacher at school pick up. She says, "do Powerpoint if you want, but she does like a few reports to display for open day, and you can't do that when the whole class does Powerpoint." "No problems", I say, "he's already made me buy a large piece of posterboard."
She also says to be careful with the info sheet, as it's a guide and not to be the whole report, which needs pictures and visuals too.
And by the way, it must be in his words. She can tell when a parent has written it. I nod and smile, wondering how much information will fit in a report entirely written by someone whose letters are regularly 3-4cm high.
And I am the Wordsmith *cue evil laugh* and I can fake 7 year old boy...just watch me.
As I sent doona boy off to karate (yes he is well enough for karate, and for his swimming lesson too damn it), I looked forward to an hour at home, not doing anything to do with the Hercules.
Instead I am deeply involved with Amelia Earhart, poor girl, who vanished into Pacific Ocean 70 years ago or something. At least my day is not that bad...yet. Apparently they found her bones and think she might have lived a little while, castaway style before eventually dying. What fun.
And along with Amelia, our stove just died, and our oven. First a nasty electrical smell, a loud pop, a swirl of smoke. And...nothing. Dead as a doornail (whatever that is?). Have cooked dinner on the BBQ hotplate, but this situation is not sustainable. It is a terrible, unventilated, electrical nightmare of a thing and I'm glad it's dead, I just wish it had held out a tiny bit longer.
|The evil, dead stove/oven. It's retractible. Yes, it moves in and out via a handy mechanism. And the oven door opens up like a sports car. It needed to die.|