Skip to main content

Frienemies at Five

The Rabbit is frienemies with a little girl in her kindergarten class, Tadpole. How do I know? They are mad at each other. And they love each other.

This will manifest itself in notes where Tadpole will tell The Rabbit how much she loves her. And The Rabbit will roll her eyes and exclaim that Tadpole wants to play with her too much. And then I go to pick her up from school and she and Tadpole are giggling and holding hands and chasing each other on the playground.

And then. Last night The Rabbit found a note in her bag from Tadpole saying that she thinks she likes another girl more than The Rabbit. Needless to say feelings were hurt causing a return note to be written.

When The Prince came home he decided to put an end to this cold war and called Tadpole's mother to let her know about the nature of the original note. And what do we find? The Rabbit, as it turns out, is a prolific little note writer herself including penning one that implied she never wanted to play with Tadpole again.

Breakfast this morning had us chatting about this. The Rabbit denied all knowledge of her note (my little CIA operative in training.) And had the most perfect excuse:

"Tadpole must have gotten it from another girl who looks like me and has the same name as me."

Looking forward to the excuses she'll spin one day when I find my clothes "borrowed," missing or destroyed.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Grim Reaper

Firstborn is obsessed with death. It started with the odd comment, such as; "Mummy, what happens when you die?" OK, I thought, I was expecting this at some point, what a cute little curious brain she has. So I trotted out all the cosy Heaven stuff and left out all the things that could worry her, such as worms and bones and holes in the ground. This went down pretty well, although somehow Firstborn made the jump from my view of Heaven (filled with love, joy, always warm, never rains, has a huge discount designer shoe outlet and I never have to pay my Visa bill) to her own view of Heaven; a wonderous place where small girls don't have to eat their vegetables before they're allowed pudding, and where Barbie dolls grow on trees. Anyway, I digress. Last week Firstborn started shouting "Kill! Kill!" in a bloodthirsty tone while bashing her hithero-beloved teddy against the wall. This was topped by her purposely flushing her favourite My Little Pony down the loo. ...

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to

A friend recently emailed me to say that her big memory of her stay with us last year is that she had a great birthday, one of the few where she didn't 'act like a spoiled grumpy princess'. She tried to give me all the credit but as I explained to her, it was all down to having a fellow female organising the birthday fun rather than leaving it to her partner. Her email got me thinking about birthdays and how very different men and women are in their attitudes to celebrating special occasions. It also had me thinking about my birthday two years ago when I threw a major tantrum in the Carrefour car-park after being told that we were off to do the weekly shop, kids in tow, which was simply the final straw at the end of a very uninspiring day. In contrast, my birthday last year was rather lovely (a morning on my own in a spa with no mobile coverage, pure selfish bliss). This year - in a few short months, eek! - I'll be hitting the grand old age of 38. This will be my las...