Picture the serene beauty of the English countryside.
It’s a beautiful Spring day. The sun has finally made an appearance and the daffodils are emerging from their sleep. We are heading out as a family for a nice
stress stretch. A Sunday strife stroll with the dogs. What could be more relaxing?
Cue the arrival of Family Calamity.
My boys are separated by seven years and a vast chasm of understanding.
They love, they hate, they love to hate. They fight about nothing. It’s all become so predictable that I can now close my eyes and orchestrate the oncoming series of events before it even happens. It goes something like this:-
1. Junior finds a stick
2. Senior takes the stick
3. Senior is asked to give back said stick or face the consequences
4. Senior ignores parent and carries on regardless. Also intermittently poking Junior with the stick when he thinks parents aren’t looking (and has forgotten that Junior has had the power of speech for some years now)
5. Junior cries. No, scratch that. Junior wails like a Banshee
6. Senior gets grounded
7. Senior gives Junior a ‘dig’ for getting him into trouble
8. Mummy has a colossal hissy fit in the middle of the National Trust landscape and wonders out loud why her family appear to be the only people not peacefully meandering along enjoying the sounds of the British springtime…
Is it just me?