I'm going to write EVERY DAY for the next few weeks. Or months. Because a) Mum told me to, and she is wise. And b) When I used to write every day, all my words came out BLEARGHPTHBPTHB and some of them were WONDERFUL! Nowadays, I think "Ahhh, when I have time, I will write about so-and-so." And then I never have time. And when I do, I can't remember what I was going to say. So prepare yourself for lots of non-essential rambling. Just like recently, but moreso.
My computer says moreso is not a word. What is the world coming to?
I have a cold, and have to sneeze loudly in the dead of night, which the cat does not appreciate at all.
One of my children has been sent to pieces by looming mock GCSE exams. He's usually the world's most confident guy, but suddenly it's all a bit much. He's doing 14 GCSEs (as well as numerous other activities, like a gliding certificate and navigation and so on), so I have been expecting a meltdown for a year or so - All I can do now is make sure he takes his vitamins and gets exercise and rest, and doesn't get any stress from other areas of his life. He will be fine. In fact, he is fine already, a day later. He just needed to have a meltdown and some chocolate and a hug. The next son is also preparing for 14 GCSEs. And son number three is on his way to being just as academically inclined. I live in a house full of nerds.
I'm slowly writing a book about raising gifted kids, which sort of goes against the grain because I suspect that gifted kids need the same parenting as non-gifted kids. And also that all kids are gifted, if we could only discover what their gifts were. And also, I am not sure exactly how my kids turned out the way they did. People ask me all the time what I did, and I feel like a fraud because I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING! I just muddled through, like all parents do. I was forced to parent the way I did, and do, because that was what worked at the time. So it may end up being a book about how not to freak out when your child makes a hollow model of a zombie out of blu tac, fills it with ketchup, and dissects it at the dinner table while giving a running commentary in Latin. Unfortunately, even that advice may be beyond me, because the smell and sight of blu tac and ketchup seriously ruined my fish pie experience and I had to make a house rule regarding blu tac and ketchup zombie models not being dissected at the dinner table.
My informative book is off to a shaky start.
But it's doing better than my OTHER book, a novel, which has only reached the stage where I threaten my family: "This is all going in my book." They are shaking in their boots, I can tell you.