I'm afraid it's one of those Mummy posts, you know the ones, the proud Mummy ones.  Sometimes however, they're just necessary and quite frankly bloody well deserved.

I'm always proud or The Spawn.  They're good kids (apparently).  The end of the school year brought the inevitable; school reports.

All we ask is that The Spawn behave and try their best.  We neither expect nor ask or any more.

Thing Two came home with rows upon rows of A's for effort and attainment.  Her year 2 SATS were streaks ahead of where they should be and her teachers comment was positively glowing.  The icing on the cake is that her peers voted and she'll be on the School Council next year too. She is a model student, her attitude, behaviour, attainment, social skills etc are consistently unfaultable.  It's not hard to see why her teachers adore her.

Thing One brought a similarly good report home, his consisting of A's & B's and his 'levels' are consistent with those a few years ahead of him.  We're always especially astounded by his consistent achievements seeing as he is one of the youngest in his year too.  His teachers comment was lovely and the Head Teachers comment said he was a good role model for the school.  We're half convinced he has an alter personality because although we love him dearly he's incredibly hard work at home yet at school and with relatives he's fantastic, maybe he just doesn't like us?

Thing One applied to be a prefect seeing as he'll be in year 6 in September, reached the interview stage and nailed it.  For the third year running he received the science award for his year and then came the bolt out of the blue.  Not only is he a prefect but at the awards presentation evening we discovered that from all the prefects he's been chosen to be Head Boy! Yes my eyes may have leaked.  Twice.

Naturally there's a downside, lets just say some of his peers aren't very gracious about his achievements and he received several downright mean comments suggesting he's undeserving of the title, somehow though I think I'll stick with the Head teachers judgement skills as opposed to the judgement of year 5 boys.

Yet the most important thing to us is that The Spawn are happy at school everything else is icing
 on the cake.

So yes, I'm a proud Mum and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

It's a Vikings life

Dei galne har mange morosame stunder som den vettige ikkje har(The maniacs have many funny hours that the sane guy does not have).

Thing One has forgotton his p.e kit.  Again .  After mithering for weeks about how utterly and absolutely important it was to have it it took us telling him five times to pack it and a further several days of reminding him to take it he's still, you guessed it, not taken it.

Until yesterday that is, which was rather unfortunate for the authenticity of his costume, I'm rather certain Vikings, Romans and Celts didn't support Manchester United.  Still it did ensure that this little viking could participate in netball club upon his return.

Yesterday Thing One's class visited Martin Mere to experience a day in the life of a Roman/Viking/Saxon.  However, it wasn't so simple as just waving them off with butties in a carrier bag and the vague hope that if they puke on the coach, it won't be over their uniform.  Oh no, after the three page letter positively gloated that we only had to pay £9 towards it (bare in mind the school is in a socially and economically deprived area) they then went on to inform us that they must be in authentic costume. Oh and they must have an authentic lunch as they dictated to us what kind of bread, fillings and fruit they were allowed (apples were fine, bananas weren't. ) and even going so far as insisting it should be wrapped in brown paper and string or a teatowel.  All this for the bargain price of £9 (+ cost of costume + cost of wellies + cost of dinner + time taken to source and make costume) Terrific. Spiffing.  I was literally exuding excitement.  Did you feel it?

Predictably most parents went down the bedsheet toga route of an upper class Roman, or a peasant draped in the emergency picnic blanket borrowed from the boot of the car.  I say most as there were a few anomalies such as Thing One's friend who looked like some homosexual Mexican bandit on a tremendous drug high crossed with George Michael complete with bright turquoise blanket poncho style and a disturbing beard made from mascara (not pubic hair, it just looked like it)  Poor kid.

As most of you know I'm terminally uncrafty.  I have no craft gene.  None.  I sent The Husband on a mission to Abakhan only to get a phone call saying there was nothing at all like I'd asked for and it was all terribly expensive.  Turns out the silly bugger had gone to bloody HobbyCraft, yet apparently I'm the ditzy one in the relationship.  Still a few snips and rips later and we had a fur-ish tabbard and arm doodahs.  Phew.

I was feeling somewhat pleased until a friend remarked how cool the young Jedi looked.  Arse.

Still, I guess it was all worth it seeing as Thing One didn't pause for breath once during the walk home.  They went foraging, played with wooden weapons, ate around a fire, made stew and oatcakes and he even made me a darling little woolen bracelet.

What he doesn't realise is that we're going to make him dress as a Viking every weekend for a year, you know.....just to get our money's worth and all.  Oh and because we're horrifically mean parents.