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...)"
