Sunday, 20 October 2013


The big lad is going through what I like to think of as his amateur dramatics phase.

Yesterday we were all upstairs playing whilst the bath was running.
Littlest little one was happily getting ready to get in the bath.

I could feel the tension building as I turned nervously to his brother and  said those dreaded words....
"Can you get ready for the bath...please?"

It was like a scene from Platoon as his arms flew up and he dropped to his knees and then crashed down on to the floor in a heap.

You get the picture. Any request to do something perceived as a chore is met by an Oscar worthy act of defiance.

Of all the different phases it is one of my least favourite I have to say.

His reactions to the smallest of requests is, at first, quite funny. After the twentieth time it all becomes rather tedious.

Our new next door neighbour has just moved in.
I can just imagine her walking into her bathroom only to hear me through the wall screeching at Samuel to, and I quote "for the love of god, just brush your bloody teeth."
What she doesn't know is that it was the seventeenth time of asking.

I used to be able to get away with the whole "we'll don't do it then, I'm not bothered." It always did the trick.
He has become wise to my lame attempts at reverse psychology and now simply smiles and says "OK then, I won't."

I then have no smarter comeback than simply "well you have to because I have told you to."

"But Mummy, a minute ago you said I didn't have to?"

This motherhood malarkey is exhausting!