I appear to be coughing up crap of yellowy doom, again. How is this fair?
The past few days have been uneventful if you discount an excellent parent/teacher meeting for the seven year old who appears to be far too brainy and likeable to have been born from me and a phone call from school (about the nine year old. It’s always about the nine year old! ) to inform us he’d been twatted over the head in pe with a hockey stick and that despite the lump and bruise be was okay and back in class. Good old wet paper towels and their magical properties. You have to be fully trained to apply them you know.
Today is the nine year olds parent/teacher meeting. School starts at 08.50. It takes five minutes to get there but ten minutes to get home as it’s up hill. It’s really not worth going home then setting out again yet at 09.40 that’s a bloody long wait at school to see his teacher. Urgh.
My SPD is getting worse and quickly. I’m walking as if I’ve been riding a horse bare back for a week solid with the sound effect of ‘ouch’ to every step.
Having to fork out for two school trips. In a school that’s populated by the socially and economically deprived asking a tenner for one trip and seven pounds for another is somewhat taking the piss.
I’ve finally got round to buying something for the womble. It’s only a small token purchase but it matters to me. It makes it that little bit more real.
I wish they had parent and teacher conferences for the three year old. I know he only goes for two days a week and hasn’t been long yet it’s a new universe for him. Thankfully he utterly loves it. Even if he is insisting that out of the four female staff, three of them are blokes?!
Oh well, I suppose I really ought to get the three year old dressed. Next week he’ll be my four year old.