So, you think you know everything...

"How do you know that?" Boy #1 asked me when I pointed out that he hadn't made his bed today and reminded him that if he wanted a star for his chart, he should go and sort it.

"Because I am the Mummy. And I know everything" I replied.

................

"But how do you know that?" Boy #1 asked again during a conversation about ancient Egypt, sarcophogi and canopic jars.

"Because, I learned it at school. And of course, because I am the Mummy. So I know everything about Ancient Egypt..."

................

"But how do you know that 23 is 'greater than' 18? How?" during his maths homework.

"Because it just is - here's a number line to show you, and 'greater than' means 'more than' or, 'a bigger number than'. And, of course..."

"...because you are the Mummy. And you know everything."

"That's right, my child. You are finally getting it."

But Boy #1 had had enough. "You don't! You don't know everything! Who was it, in Star Wars Episode 2, who had their head severed off in the arena?"

"Ummm.... Count Dooku?"

"No! You see, you DON'T know everything. Ha! It was Boba Fett!"

Dammit. Apparently I don't know everything. I'm going to have to find another tag-line

Star Wars 3, Potski-style...

Boys #1 and #2 watched Star Wars 3 this afternoon. This was not their first viewing of the movie, but since we've been on the move and away from their dvd collection for the last 7 weeks, it was the first time they've seen it in a couple of months. As a result, the magic (or should I say, The Force) was strong with them after they had watched the galaxy's cutest babies being delivered to their foster parents at the end of the film, so I was not suprised to come across them shortly afterwards acting out their own version of not one but a number of scenes, all squashed into a 'best of' composite action sequence.

Boy #1 was the Hero, Boy #2 the Baddie. I'm not sure which Hero, or which Baddie - it's best not ask in these circumstances as you are then at risk of being set complicated Star Wars questions worthy of University Challenge - but Boy #1 was writhing on the floor as Boy #2 electrocuted him with his Evil Power. Cue the following conversation:

Boy #2 "And now, and now I 'lectrotute you. AHAHAHAHAHAAHA!"

Boy #1 : "And then, and then, I fight back. 'I have the high ground. Don't do it!'"

Boy #2: "And then I jump over your head!"

Boy #1: "But I slash at you with my light sabre and, and your cloak catches fire. But don't forget, when that happens you have to stop."

Boy #2: "Why?"

Boy #1: "Because when you catch fire, you have to stop, drop, and roll..."

Boy #2 commences stopping, dropping, and rolling.

Now, if only Anakin had known to stop, drop and roll in the event of his clothes catching fire, we might have been spared the Darth Vader years. You've got to love a modern primary school education...

I've been shortlisted for an award, by the way. The very kind judges at Gurgle have included The Potty Diaries as one of the 5 possibilities for 'Best Funny Mummy Blog'. If you have the chance and the inclination, click here and I'm not too cool to say that every vote for me would be appreciated....

Say what you mean (or pay the price...)

We tried out a new babysitter this week. Normally our cleaner comes over to look after the Boys for us if we need help; she's good with them, they like her, and she knows where everything is so it's all simple. On this evening, however, I decided to try something different, and asked the 16 year old son of one of our neighbours if he would like to look after the boys for us.

It didn't work out quite to plan.

Don't get me wrong; he was courteous, kind, left no mess, and did not empty the fridge or drain the vodka bottle. The boys loved having him there, and strutted about the place with mysteriously deepened voices, no-nonsense attitudes, plastic hammers in their pyjama waste-bands (metaphorically speaking only in the case of Boy #1), and bid me goodbye with matter-of-fact 'haven't you gone yet?' expressions.

I left their new babysitter proving more than a match for Boy #1's encyclopeadic knowledge of Star Wars (this morning's Star Wars Mastermind Tournament at breakfast featured the question "Who was the "Chosen One', Mama?" and then a lively debate about whether it was Anakin or Luke. I favoured the former but Boy #1 reasoned that because Anakin failed to live up to his billing it was Luke who properly fitted that description. Ah well. He may be right; of such important issues are a 7 year old boy's world made...). He helped in the creation of their latest Lego creation (Star Wars, obviously),and then when the time was right, got their teeth brushed and put them to bed.

Perfect.

Except... Well, when anyone asks me what time my sons go to bed, I invariably answer "7.30pm, or thereabouts" but as any mother knows, '7.30pm' can just as easily mean 7.45pm, and as Boy #1 gets older it can even mean 8.00pm. Oh, who am I kidding? It's almost always closer to 8.00pm than 7.30, and the Boys have become used to that.

But of course our 16 year old babysitter, eager to do the right thing and follow my instructions to the letter had them in bed with lights out by 7.30pm. I was, of course, delighted.

Not quite so delighted the next morning though when they both work up at 6.15am, an hour before I normally wake them, on a day when in fact we were in no rush and I had planned a lie-in until 7.30...

I believe the expression is 'hoist by your own petard'. And next time I will say what I mean; "7.45pm (but 8 at a push...)"