My Boy thinks that if the three (Not So Very Little) Welsh Boys FaceTime me while imprisoned in the back of the car on the journey home from a woodland walk, we will have a better chance of a "proper" conversation.
After all, they will
not able to leave me stranded (as it were) on the sofa while they trot off into the kitchen to find the latest "must see" object for my eyes only. Nor will they be able to turn me into a Giddy Goat by carrying the IPad around the house with them, upstairs
and downstairs, inside and outside, till I don't know whether I am coming or going.
They are, however, still able to enjoy cutting off the screen from time to time by placing a strategic thumb over the webcam, while they can still delight in turning
the camera round so that I have a good view of the back of their father's head while he is driving, or their mother's head above the passenger seat. It is All Great Fun, you can tell.
It was Parents' Evening this week - a marathon session for
the boys' parents now that they have three sons all at the same school. Each boy, the Darling Daughter-in-Law tells me, received a glowing report from his teacher, together with "something to work on." I do like this approach. I think I will seek to put it
into action at home, of which more later.
But first, the boys. Young Morgan's teacher describes him as being very fond of "doing" things, particularly if this involves The Great Outdoors. He is not nicknamed The Duracell Bunny for nothing. His
reading is coming along a treat but he needs to concentrate attention on his writing. He is only four, so I think we should cut him some slack, personally.
Sam, the eldest, was praised for his creative writing. Now why doesn't that surprise me,
given that Sam the Storyteller has been finishing off my bedtime stories for me since he was four years old? He needs to work, however, on curbing his inclination to fidget. Ah, bless him, he is so like me! I'm a fidget, too. One idea, apparently, is to give
him a length of string to keep his fidgety fingers busy while listening to his teacher's Words Of Wisdom. I'm not sure, as a fidgeter myself, that a piece of string would be sufficiently, well, absorbing. Maybe he could doodle, I suggest? I remember a former
colleague of mine who drew the most magnificent doodles on his weekly Corporate Management Team agendas and swore by the Art of Doodling as an aid to concentration. Sam's parents are inclined to disagree on the (doubtless sensible) basis that the doodling
would simply take over, being, in effect, another form of story-telling.
James, in the middle, is a lovely, helpful boy, according to his teacher, always ready to assist in tidying up. This is not exactly a trait any of us have noticed at home
and we are inclined to think that he could transfer some of his Inner Tidy Upper from school to home. I am so busy absorbing this thought that I miss hearing what it is that James needs to work on.
I'm rather glad I no longer have a teacher to
instruct me on deficiencies to be tackled. I do, however, have Mr B who has always been vocal on the subject and doesn't need to wait until a half-yearly Parents' Evening to explain and instruct. These are the issues on which, in the words of many a school
report, I Must Try Harder.
Firstly, I need to stop mumbling. Apparently. I, for my part, don't think I do mumble though I admit I do, on occasions, mutter under my breath. Muttering under one's breath is extremely annoying to the person who is
the subject of the muttering but muttering is not mumbling. Mumbling is accidental, muttering is on purpose and can be argued to be therapeutic. Even the saintliest among us surely resorts to the occasional mutter, wouldn't you say, and I have never claimed
to be a saint. Far too much polishing of the halo and mending ripped wings if you ask me. You can just tell I am not a Domestic Goddess.
Secondly, according to Mr B, I need to stop dashing about, here, there and everywhere. I need to sit quietly
and just be. He does have a point and provided I can manage it without either muttering or mumbling, then it could be A Good Thing.
Though, like Sam the Storyteller, I may need to invest in a piece of string to stop me fidgeting...