Baby massage

Yesterday the baby did baby massage. Theoretically this is supposed to relax him. It’s not that he didn’t like it, but it seemed to give him added energy so he emerged bouncier than usual, while I was yawning my way through the whole experience.
This was because the day before was my birthday and we had chosen to go to the local Harvester for dinner. Big girl daughter was feeling a little tired due to not being able to sleep without being cuddled up. Bonkers daughter was decked out in rouge, Dorothy pigtails and ribbons and droppy earrings, ready for a glamorous night out. Rebel daughter was ravenous. Everyone spent the night running back and forth to the toilet or salad bar. The baby was bouncing with excitement.
It’s been quite a week all round. Both rebel and bonkers daughter have had a bit of a traumatic time at school so were ready to party. Rebel daughter has fallen out with her best friend to such an extent that she has barred her and her sister on Moshi Monsters, the pre-teen equivalent of a declaration of war. Bonkers daughter was swinging over a bar in the playground and accidentally hit a girl with her foot. The girl retired injured and her best friend accused the bonkers one of doing it on purpose and informed her that she could have killed her friend. Bonkers daughter lives in a world where everyone is imminently in danger of dying. She has taken recently, for instance, to suddenly clutching her heart and telling me it has stopped beating. She also cannot resist announcing every time we pass the local swimming pool that we “almost died” there [there was a fire drill while we were in the pool]. Back at the playground, the supervisor was called over and asked bonkers daughter if she had said sorry to the injured girl. “I was so worried that I couldn’t speak, Mummy,” she told me afterwards. “Were you worried about being in trouble?” I asked. “No,” she replied. “I thought I had killed the girl with my foot.”
We saw the girl the following day at the library during an ill-planned Roald Dahl celebration. She looked in fairly good health, as did the other 15 or so children who had been left with the quiet, bookish-looking librarian. I think the parents had seen Roald Dahl day as a great excuse for some free childcare. The librarian valiantly attempted to read passages of his books to the assembled horde who were running round and round, shouting at each other and not really looking that interested in Roald Dahl.
I’m hoping to have a quiet weekend, but I have just been handed the Essex school guide to read and research for the forthcoming secondary school visits.

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