Mum, when you call my name and I just don't care and don't talk to you, then you talk louder and I still don't care and then you get a little bit cross and then I say, 'Huh?'
I would laugh, but it's a depressingly accurate portrayal of how our interactions go and I'm slightly scared of her thought processes. To wit, a self-composed song by hers truly:
Don't drink my blood, I neeeeed it! Don't drink my blood, there's not much left! Don't drink my blood, OH NO, I'm dead!
I have no idea where that came from, and she feigns ignorance whenever I mention her 'blood song.' I'm certain she sang it. I wrote it down as she was singing it.
My husband took the day off work on Friday, and we drove to a Pick Your Own farm. We picked our own strawberries, blackberries, gooseberries, raspberries, beets, broad beans and potatoes. It was a perfect day -- beautiful weather, small crowds, and relatively behaved children. It was so fun to pick our own food, and the kids participated by eating everything they picked while we tried to hide their berry-stained faces when we paid for the food. "What children? Whose children? Oh, no, we're not responsible for those children who have obviously eaten half the strawberries in the fields without paying. Tsk tsk."
We snuck them into the car on our way out.