The ultimate tag team whose sole goal is to deprive their parents of sleep.
When one sleeps through the night, the other thinks that 2am is party time. When one decides that the land of dreams is too irresistible to leave before 8am, the other wants to be dressed and out of the door at 5am. I swear it’s because they know that broken sleep leaves me in a weakened state and I’m more likely to cave in to demands for ‘shoclat’.
You are the boy who is three years four months and two weeks old.
You are the boy who needs to know how old everyone is and if met with a reply of ‘I don’t know’ responds with ‘I think they are fifty-eleven-twelve’.
You are the boy who uses your fingers to count the letters of the alphabet.
This is not strictly true as Paul and I met when we were sixteen and it was so long ago that I don’t think that either of us even owned a computer at that time. In fact, my first real memory of using a computer is at university when it took an hour to download a rather grainy image of Pete Sampras (yes, my taste in men has been rather questionable over the years).
But back to spreadsheets. ‘Tis true. Paul and I have a real fondness for documenting everything in numeric form. I know it’s sad but I blame four years working as a finance analyst (me) and way too many hours as a project manager (him). Both have taken their toll and as a result, we have worksheets tracking our income and expenditure since we moved in together in 2003. Knowing exactly where we stand when it comes to our finances has made us a great team over the years and means that we always know when we have to tighten our belts and when we can make silly purchases (mainly on very high and very expensive heels that I can’t actually walk in).
I don’t know when Tuesday became our baking afternoon. Maybe it’s because these afternoons are so traumatic that I’ve blocked the history of them from my mind.
When CK bounds down the stairs, quickly confers with me about what day it is, and then hears the word ‘Tuesday’ muttered, he shouts ‘What are we making today?’ and does a little jig of excitement.
I stare out of the window looking for the faintest promise of a sunny day and suggest a trip to the zoo instead. Or maybe the park. Even the ice cream farm.
But no. No joy. Bake we must.
There’s nothing CK likes more than a parcel through the door with his name on. And if that parcel contains a book, then all the better.
The gift of a book is a truly wonderful thing. It’s not just the receiving of a present but more so the key to immersing yourself in another world – a world of colourful characters, daring adventures, and (mostly) happy endings. Who doesn’t love comfy clothes, snuggling in to the sofa and opening the very first page of a brand new book, wondering where you’ll be transported to, what strange lands you’ll visit and whether you’ll be able to sleep until you know how everything ends?