Socially Inept

Firstly a quick word on the whole God situation in this house.  You may have noticed that I was just a wee bit rattled by all the God chatter and hymn singing that has suddenly burst forth in this house of religious ambivalence (or The Unchurched as my friend Emma likes to call us :)).

Well, Miss 4, in her endless mission to Prove Her Mother Wrong, brought home the book below as her library book for this week.

Her logic being that if there is a book about how tall God is then he must be a real person which is in direct contravention of our earlier agreement that he is a pretend, invisible person that some people believe in and some people don't.

Yes, she is four and no I am not looking forward to the teenage years.

Today I had a playdate with the rest of Miss 4's class.  Honestly, being an introvert, I don't do being social at the best of times, but when its with a group of people I don't know and my children are there and are completely shattered after a hot and humid day at school - well, let's just say that I had a deep suspicion that there'd be something bloggable by the end of the day.

No, Miss 4 did not poo in their swimming pool.
No, Miss 5 did not say fuck, bitch or bloody, not once.
No, Miss 4 did not hit, bite or steal, nothing, not a thing.
No, Miss 5 did not break things, nag, whine or investigate the contents of their bedside tables (Miss 4 got shut in their walk-in wardrobe, and then I was found in a situation where it looked a lot like I was going through their clothes, but when I hauled out my grinning child all was explained and smiles from everyone).

I was rather proud of them actually.

But it was their mother who raised eyebrows. Oh yes.  You see they had a chocolate fountain.  You know, one of these things, where you dip the fruit in the warm melty chocolate.

Well I resisted as long as I could, but when everyone was in the pool I managed to sneak away and have a little taste all on my own.  It was then that I had a disaster. My hair, which was up in a french knot, unwound itself and without thinking I brushed it back. Then I realised I had chocolate all over my hand and THEN realised I had chocolate drizzled all over the front of my blue shirt.

Quick dash to the kitchen and some paper towel resulted in a greasy brown wet mess across my capacious bosom, which I tried to hide by unbuttoning my shirt another button and sort of pulling out the collar.  Dismal failure.

I washed hands, tidied my hair and rejoined the group. When the time came we headed home (with no tantrums - yay us).  Hour or so later and I picked up hubby from the station.
"Have you been eating chocolate?" he asked.
"Why?"
"It looks like chocolate in your eyebrow.  Is it?"
I rub my eyebrow. Yes. Chocolate.
"And hey, what's that in your hair. It looks like chocolate too."
Yes. Yes it was.  Chocolate. IN. MY. HAIR.

I am never leaving the house again.

NEVER.