Nice ice baby?
In my capacity as a MOB, there are three things that I just don’t do. Well OK, probably a lot more than three. But last week it was three that sprung to mind.
As you may know already from my ‘Down Means Out’ post, this Mother Of Boys doesn’t do balls in the house. Or sticks, swords, or indeed anything that bears even a passing resemblance to the afore-mentioned objects. Despite endless promises to the contrary, these weapons of mass destruction always end in tears (most often mine) and so they are all on the ‘at risk’ banned offenders list.
You may therefore be coming to the conclusion that I am a) a control freak, and b) a killjoy. What I am about to say next will no doubt confirm your suspicions.
Because the third thing I just don’t do is ice.
Take last Friday morning, for instance.
For once, we achieve the unachievable and are ready to leave for school – on time and, even more miraculously, appropriately dressed. Coats on, gloves on, good to go. I open the back door and the boys tumble out and proceed to the car in a sensible straight line. Only they don’t, do they? Because there’s… ICE!
Like sniffer dogs they hurtle, hither and thither, racing from one rain-filled flower pot to the next. Noses to the ground they scuttle around, tapping promising puddles with their school-shoe heels. It was freezing last night so there must be some somewhere… we can smell it, sense it, so where, where?
‘Come on boys, let’s go!’ I yell jumping into the car, clapping my despite-gloves-still-numb hands together. ‘We’re going to be late and I don’t want you cold and wet even before you get to school!’
Too late – they’ve gone.
I turn to see the pack, as one, heading off in the direction of the trampoline. Slithering dangerously on frost-covered steps, they clamber onto the frame, destination, I see now, a glimmering pond. A yell: ‘We’ve found it – there’s ice, there’s ice!’, and they are finally holding winter’s treasure in their hands. Momentarily they brandish their trophy sheets head-high, before casting them to the ground in insane excitement. Sheets of ice splinter to the earth in a thousand sparking shards.
‘Come on, boys,’ I try again. ‘Put the ice down… your fingers must be frozen and you’ll all be moaning in a minute!’
‘We’re fine, we’re not cold,’ shouts back Sensible Son.
‘We’ve got gloves on, we’re cool,’ adds Binary Boy.
‘Oh, come on mum,’ corroborates Feisty Fellow, ‘we’re havin’ fun!’
Despite my protestations, I smile to myself. Maybe, I think, it’ll actually be OK this year. Maybe, unlike last year, we won’t have quite so many arctic meltdowns thanks to frozen extremities and sub-zero pain.
‘Well, fun or not, it’s time to go… COME ON!’
Sensing the game is over, my ice-hounds return, and climb, reluctantly, into the car.
We are half way down the drive before it starts.
‘My hands are freezing!’ moans one.
‘My socks are soaking!’ moans another.
A third adds his howls melodramatically to the throng: ‘Can we go back home and get new gloves – mine are totally wet and won’t be any use at school.’
I put the heater on full both to warm their hands, and so I can’t hear their wails. Somehow it warms the cockles of my heart to know that MOB Rule is right.