Last Saturday Kiwi Daughter was trying to get five subjects worth of homework done so that she could go on a sleepover at a friend’s place.
For various reasons most sleep-over’s take place at our place so this was bit of a special occasion for Kiwi Daughter and she was motivated to actually try and work rather than spend the morning procrastinating. Himself was juggling taking Little Mr. to his sports game, then dropping him back home, leaving again to go grocery shopping, running errands and getting gear ready for the other activity Little Mr. attends on Saturdays.
I was helping Kiwi Daughter organise herself, make sense of homework instructions and giving her examples of the maths questions and explaining the method behind them, whilst avoiding her skilful traps set to try and get me to give her actual answers to the real questions she was supposed to complete. She knew that her presence at the sleep-over wasn’t guaranteed unless she completed the work so she was really trying her best.
Himself’s schedule was tight: he was to deliver two kids to two parts of the city at almost the same time as he also had an appointment to drop off urgent paperwork to a client that he’d gotten up early to complete earlier that morning.
All was well until 40 minutes before Kiwi Daughter was due to be whisked out the door… she had strict instructions from Himself to be ready on time but was struggling with French.
This is how I ended up busy packing her overnight things for her whilst keeping up a running debate with said child who was forcefully telling me that the French word for “school” is ”collage” and who was adamant that I was sooo wrong when I told her that perhaps ” l’ école” might be a more suitable word.
She reluctantly believed me when I shoved a French dictionary under her nose and jabbed a finger at the entry that showed her that maybe her Mama did possess a few working brain cells after all, and then probably as to avoid any possibility of admitting this fact, she changed the subject abruptly by telling me that today was also sleep-over-girl’s Birthday and what did we have that could be given as a Birthday gift?
The short answer was a stunned “um… nothing”, we don’t just keep a supply of random gifts laying around, we usually get something specific for the someone when we have an idea of what they might want. Time was ticking away and so I telephoned sleep-over-girl’s mother and asked advice, knowing that springing another errand into Himself’s tight schedule wasn’t going to be met with unbounded enthusiasm.
Luckily Himself avoided that extra stress when I was told that the Birthday Girl was saving for a week away in Italy in the Summer with her Mama and so a small amount of pocket money would be most welcome.
I had a brainwave… Last year I’d bought a little die cutter that cut out shapes that folded into little boxes that looked like Pizza boxes… and I had just one of them already cut out, in a box of craft stuff stashed away. Leaving Kiwi Daughter to wade through the French dictionary on her own, I rummaged around for the box and then grabbed some thin felt pens. Quickly the little box gained a sketch of a slice of pizza that I filled out with the colours.
I added a flag and made up a banner pizza company name and voila! my little piece of card was now a gift box. I slapped it onto a dinner plate to take it’s photo and then cash inside, wrapped it in gift paper and was in time to shove it into Kiwi Daughter’s hand as she flew down the stairs to the waiting car. Phew… that’s the way I seem to get my most recent artwork done these days: power scribbling as the clock ticks…