GRINNING LIKE A PARENT WHO’S DOING SOMETHING RIGHT

Erin is a happy, friendly class member who is making pleasing progress in all areas. She listens carefully to instructions then settles readily to the task in hand, always trying hard to do her best. Erin has a positive attitude to her learning and is developing sound work habits. She is a well behaved student who enjoys a happy relationship with her peers, is able to work co-operatively with a partner and willingly helps others.
So sayeth Erin’s first ever school report card 🙂
And while it would embarrass the buggery out of him to have the details made public, let’s just say that Aiden’s report card makes his plan to become a robotics engineer and/or member of Drowning Pool nowhere near outside the bounds of possibility. One-a smart-a cookie.
CRAZY, MAN
To celebrate the end of term, Erin’s school held a crazy hair day today. Except: no hair colour allowed, no gel, no glitter, no product. You know, no actual anything that might help make your hair crazy.
Given the limitations, and with the addition of a bright pink cowboy hat and tiara, I’d say her Mum did Erin rather proud in the crazy hair-making stakes, don’t you?
Cthulhu: the hair!
NOT CRAZY PANTS DAY!
Not for us the lazy sleep-in on an Erin & Connor-free Sunday morning, no siree. Up out of bed we were, at the crack of Jesusweptit’sfuckingcold, and off to Belmont to watch B-Henry T getting trussed, masked, and tied to an immovable object.
Yup: Blakey had a fencing tournament. And bloody fun it was too. Luscious and I were hugely proud, watching the B-boy take the field (line? battle? bit of the gymnasium?) against taller, more experienced fencers, some of whom were decked out in their Australian representative uniforms. Fencing is a brutally fast, physical sport, and after three hours of duelling he was limping, bruised, exhausted, and with his hands covered in nicks and scratches, but he was happy as a teensy Athos and so were we. It was the first time we’d seen him in competitive action, and we were instantly hooked. Next time he has a tournament, we are so there, and it looks like we’ve finally found a sport we can both watch come Olympics time (Lyn hates boxing and I don’t consider Love, Actually a sport…)
And, you know, we happen to think he looks rather dashing in his kit.
Is that a sword in your hand, or… oh, right, it’s called a foil….
AND LASTLY
Can anyone explain what goes on inside my children’s heads?

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