Since my imminent meltdown was appeased by your comments regarding Finje not yet being able to write her name, I was wondering if I could be so bold as to call on your wisdom again?

Last week, we enjoyed the hospitality of two wonderful friends who live "Down South" in Nürnburg, I'll call them Mr and Mrs O. Mrs O is a Kiwi and Mr O a German so we have a lot in common.

Mr O is a GP in a family practice. With Finje's obsession for all things medical, he was kind enough to give her some hands-on experience. He pronounced her Doctor's Assistant and took her off to work, whilst Mrs O and I fired up the coffee machine for a child-free morning of English speaking catch-up.

I was browsing through one of my favourite mum blogs the other day. The mum-blogger in question has a daughter of Finje's age and her writing is hilarious. It usually has me guffawing out loud, nodding with empathy and snorting coffee through my nose. But, after a throw away comment in last week's post I've gone right off her.

She was discussing, as it happened, one of my favourite topics, parenting as a competitive sport. You know those mums:

"Oh yes I got pregnant immediately. Little Tarfarquin was sleeping through the night three days after he was born and popping off to the toilet on his own at six months. He loves to eat sushi and stuffed olives and was a natural with the violin we bought him for his 2nd birthday. It is such a squeeze fitting in his piano forte with the World Politics lessons though as they both fall on a Monday."

My friend Emily has got a budgie. It's called Bob. I think Bob is a rubbish name for a budgie. My uncle is called Bob and the budgie doesn't look like him one bit. Mummy says Uncle Bob's real name is Robert but everyone calls him Bob. I think Robert would be a better name for the budgie but Emily says he's called Bob and that she won't change his name.

If I had a Budgie I would call it Robert.

Bob is allowed out of his cage sometimes so he can fly around the lounge. He's not allowed out when Emily's Auntie Barbara is there though. She goes weird if Bob flies near her so he has to stay in his cage, which is a shame because it's very funny when she starts hopping.

I think it's a bit mean because when he flies he seems happier. When he is sitting in his cage he looks a bit bored. It must be boring sitting in a cage.

Whilst sitting in the vortex of bubbling pleasantness that is the whirlpool at our local spa with around 25 Germans, undesirable thoughts of what I was actually simmering in were thankfully diverted by a huge Austrian bloke sitting next to me. He posed a question I get asked on a regular basis:

"Are you bringing your daughter up bilingually?"

I'm aware that those who ask have more than likely noticed the discrepancy in my communications with Finje. That being my speaking to her in English and her answering routinely in German. This is the reason for my standard answer which I accompany with a "well, what can you do?" (unattractive) facial grimace:

"Well, yes, we're trying."

In pursuance of positive parenting achievements, I took Finje swimming yesterday. I confess it was four months since our last outing to the pool but in my defense I needed that time to recover from the trauma of thinking I was going to be stuck with a wimp-child forever.

This pool is not designed for serious rubber-headed water bullet types. It's a thermal spa. Or something. A house of soggy fun by any other name. Its inside/outside pool, whirlpools, slides of varying sizes and speed, floaty salt water areas and water spurting amphibians are all designed with the pursuit of fun and frolics in mind.

Finje, obviously not savvy to this information, screamed at the waves, detested the bubbles and refused point blank to go down the water slide where other tots were queuing to repeat the merriment.
Oh the shame of a yellow-bellied child.

Strop Scene:

Stropper's bedroom. Very hot day. All windows wide open.

Strop Cause:

Discovery and attempted removal of minute but still wriggling tick from Stropper's upper thigh. Unpleasant.

Strop Symptoms:

Outcry of glass-shattering proportions. Blood-curdling high decibel wails of, "I want to keep it. No take it off. Nooooooo don't touch it. No take it ooofffff"
Slightly confused as to Stropper's needs at this moment.

Mrs Thompson at school says that we never ever stop learning even when we are very old and don't even have go to school.

Today I learned two things:

When dad gets angry about something and his face goes red and he says some naughty words, I sometimes think he looks really funny. He doesn't think so because he can't see himself when his eyes go all bulgy like a frog. So today when the car wouldn't start again and he was all red and cross, it looked funny to me so I brought a mirror for him so he could see how funny his face looked.

I have learned that that is not a good thing to do!

Is it only the Family Nowak beleaguered by what my grandmother used to call The Black Dog at the moment or is there some kind of rampant miserablism going around? I'm keen to blame it on the weather/season/husband/cat, but who knows? To be fair, describing it as a combined family condition is probably unreasonable. It could be, well....... just me.

Finje never has a truly bad mood. Finje's states of being are:

Chipper in a cute way (my personal favourite)
Chipper in an exasperating way
Chipper with a hint of irritable
Chipper in an "actually I'm tired but attempting to remain chipper" way
Tired

Any regular readers to my blog may be aware that, in my experience, bringing up a child bi-bilingually can present a parent with some challenges. It is often frustrating, occasionally inspiring and frequently amusing. I'm getting used to the roller coaster of emotions it kicks up but I wasn't at all prepared for what Finje had in her bag of tricks this week.

You know those two-year-old prodigies who can play Paganini on the violin whilst whistling God Save the Queen and tap dancing with Michael Flatley? Well, that's all very scary impressive but I'd lay a bet on them not being able to speak Shakespeare.

Not like my daughter.

Oh no.

School isn't all that good after all. I've changed my mind. Last week it was good but this week it's not as good as last week. Mrs Thompson is still nice but I've been there a whole week now and Mr Atack is still a bit scary. We have to learn stuff too. It's okay but it's not as much fun as playing in the sand pit.

Emily and me, we had a talk about it at break time. Emily's mummy told her to enjoy school because it's important and you have to learn things for when you are big so you can get a good job. Emily's cousin has just stopped learning from tteachers. She went to a place you go after school if you want to keep learning even more. She's twenty-two now and only just finished!

Twenty two is quite old. I don't think I want to learn for all that time.