Stealing a March

We have a huge chalkboard on the door in the kitchen.

Mostly the children ignore it, but for the last week they have been plotting and planning to make a collaborative Christmas picture on it, which they started this evening.

Tilly has drawn the outline of a Christmas tree and they are filling it in in turn with their own designs, and then signing it.

They are planning on doing a bit every day until Christmas.

I think it’s a nice idea. I like the fact that it is creative, and they thought of it themselves, and more importantly, I do not have to join in.

While they were doing all this planning and executing of said plan they exhibited a behaviour which they do a lot, and which drives me flipping bonkers.

They behave as if what they are doing/saying is entirely secret in every way, despite the fact that they stand in front of me discussing things at volume eleventy with megaphones.

When they have finished shouting about it to all and sundry they turn to me and then relay the conversation they have just had in front of me, with total enthusiasm, and often actions to illustrate what they have been saying/doing.

It is as if I wasn’t even there.

Which would be fine, except that I was.

And when I say: ‘Yes. I know.’

They look at me in blank amazement.

Or if I finish one of their sentences, one which they have just shouted so loud my hair has fallen out, and they then repeat for my benefit, they are gob smacked.

‘How do you know that?’

Is something I have been asked on such occasions.

They think I am some kind of weirdo mind reader.

My worst sin is to stop them, and then explain to them what they were just about to explain to me.

They find this somehow offensive, as if I have been spying on their secret conversation.

Even though if we went around to the next door neighbour’s with a clipboard he could probably tell them the same thing, they are so loud.

And this is exactly what happened when Tallulah rushed up to me to tell me about their amazing Christmas tree colouring plan.

I relayed to her what she was going to tell me.  She looked mightily narked and then turned on her heel, tossing over her shoulder as she left: ‘Well! Well! I bet you didn’t know I was going to do my picture of Jesus in his nappy surrounded by butterflies.’

Which, to be fair, is true.

And was the only piece of information worth relaying to you in its entirety.

6 responses to “Stealing a March

  1. Pesk does that too, and he’ll ask me a question and then turn to Rick and say ‘Mummy says . . . ‘ and relay the answer, as though Rick wasn’t sitting 5 feet away from me. And likewise asking Rick something and then telling it to me. I become unhinged and yell ‘WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WE ARE HERE IN THE SAME SPACE, WE CAN ALL HEAR EACH OTHER!’He then becomes hurt and offended and tells me not to shout and mutters ‘I was only sayin’ while I mutter ‘If you ever shut up your brain would get the chance to work’ and other mature, intellectual witty riposte style maternal things.

  2. My four-year-old daughter cannot fathom how I know about the things she has done or said during the day. It is as if my husband and I are unable to communicate in any way outside of her presence.

  3. What a great art project. I’m stealing it and telling my kids about it tonight. And yes, I get the verbatim updates across the room too.

  4. Madness isn’t it?

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