In which our reluctant hero discovers that his children may be the new Mozart. Or something.
It has been another busy week. A week busier than Mr Busy preparing his busy bees for the Busy Bee Championships in Busy Town.
Busy, but not quite as busy as last week, during which I was so busy that I forgot to drop the typewriters off with the monkeys who normally churn this weekly guff into the big blog bin in the sky. A missed deadline for the second time in almost two years. Eek! No blog, no matter. Nobody noticed.
Buried in the busyness was Parents’ Evening. Parents LOVE Parents’ Evening day almost as much as the teachers. Probably.
For most, it’s a day spent scratching parental chins while trying to muddle through the logistical nightmare of drop-offs and collections, fitting some work in, turning up at the allocated appointments at the right times and managing a couple of moany people who are bored and want their tea.
Not me though.
“Which appointments would you like, sir?”
“17:10 for Nursery, and 17:20 for Reception, please.”
“All booked, sir.”
“Thank you. What do you fancy for tea?”
Being married to the lady booking the appointments definitely has its perks.
As usual, there was nothing to worry about. We were told that, despite being born in Wolverhampton, the boy is “talented” and the girl “gifted.” Of course they are. Would you expect anything less?
Later that evening, I decided to look up the definitions of their brilliance. No, really. It was either that or watch MasterChef. Whoever decided that putting greengrocers on telly was a good idea needs to take a long, hard look in the mirror.
having a natural aptitude or skill for something.
“a talented young musician”
having exceptional talent or natural ability.
“a gifted amateur musician”
Interesting. Whatever the kids are doing musically at school doesn’t seem to be making it home. While the odd blast of a tune from Mary Poppins or Mr Tumble no longer causes perforated eardrums, I’m not totally convinced that fame and fortune is just around the corner. Still, well done all!
Buoyed by an unexpected shower of praise rather than his usual five hundred or so tellings off, the talented one upped his game. A few days later he earned a “Wow Moment” for getting dressed all by himself. He took it to school to stick in his big scrapbook, as you do.
With independence comes freedom. In this case the freedom to go to school with your trousers on back-to-front. On my watch too. Oh, the shame of it.
The teachers didn’t seem to mind, presumably as they were keen for him to get stuck into practising his piano recital rather than worry that a pupil looks like Kris Kross.
With the boy safely deposited at class, I reached for emergency baby wipes and started to clean up the gifted one who had earlier face-planted into the wet pavement having crashed her scooter into her brother’s buggy.
And, suddenly, it occurred to me that this is parenting a three-year-old and a five-year-old in a nutshell. The constant flitting between total amazement, such as hearing my offspring sing a “Happy New Year” song in Chinese, to rolling my eyes at the latest mishap or shouldn’t-laugh-but-I’m-going-to-anyway moment.
I’m surprised that there isn’t more of the latter to be fair. Quite how their heads haven’t come off with amount of new stuff being bombarded at them is a minor miracle.
The little people are developing well and are happy. It’s nice to be told that they’re talented or gifted, but it matters not as I know that they’re both definitely “special.”
What more could a Dad ask for, asides maybe some new, better ones who don’t block the drains by filling them up with stones from the garden? Again. Bless them.
Now where did I put my drain rods?