On Tuesday my son climbed a tree. He wants to be a writer and needed to know what it was like from the top.
On Wednesday the children worked out the best way to set up two blankets as a tent. On Thursday they decided to raise money for their holiday fund, so they figured out how many days they needed to make their beds at 20p a go.
On Friday they walked in the woods, where they took apart sycamore seeds and collected lots of shiny conkers. On Saturday morning my daughter went trampolining and my son took his books back to the library. That afternoon they played their special game of Scrabble where they invent names for characters they're going to write a book about.
For Sunday dinner, one did the Yorkshire pudding and the other made the gravy. But they got a bit carried away turning the red cabbage blue and pink with lemon juice and bicarbonate of soda (it's an acid/alkaline test).
I realise you think I'm a bad parent because I didn't hear them read and sign their reading record with the date, or help with their maths homework. My daughter told me you said she'd only be fit to stack supermarket shelves if she didn't get good SATs. I know my son looks out of the window a lot and you expect he'll be unable to write anything if he doesn't learn to spell.
Yes, I saw the news about parents who spend time with them having more financially successful children. But I work all day and spend evenings on the housework. Their dad's away at the moment and life's difficult on my own.
You look ill, sir. I'm sorry you haven't been very well with your ulcer. I guess that's what comes with success nowadays. I'm glad my children won't be that kind of successful.
