Had I been a slightly meaner mum, I would have levelled with him.
“Seriously. Don’t quit maths, son.”
The kid has his talents. Clearly, he is not wowing art classes though. The Viking hastens to point out that Picasso’s teachers probably went into hiding when cubism caught on.
“Valid point,” I say. “It’s still borders on crap”. And I mean it in the nicest possible maternal, loving way.
He hates being made to draw or colour in class. He simply doesn’t possess the patience to sit there and do it thoroughly. Something about the whole exercise is totally pointless to him. And colouring inside the lines? He would rather eat chalk, vomit and then eat it again than hear that. However, give him a box of REAL paint, let him freestyle and he comes up with pretty cool stuff.
And then we actually read what he’s written.
“I wish I had a whale and a mouse as pets”. The Viking and I hold onto each other and break into our biggest ugly, wobbly body laughs.
No horse, no cat, no dag, no hamster. A WHALE and a mouse. Go figure. You gotta adore how his mind is completely unencumbered by realilty. How he is still unchained by the word Im-bloody-possible.
Obviously, we love him so insanely that we ” ooh and aah” over the calender and hang it beside our bed.
“A whale?” I’m such a born party-pooper that I can’t resist.
“It’s the coolest” he says excitedly, “the tongue is as heavy as an elephant! Did you know that? And it’s like 20 times Pappa!”
“Right,” I say in between great snorts of laughter looking at an appalled Viking, “Kinda HUGE pet though, eh?”
He gives me a look. Like so? Your point being?
“We would fill our garden with water and let him live there” he informs me archly.
“And what happened to the poor mouse?”
“He’s small. I thought it would be cool. But mice are just boring. So I rubbed him out when the teacher wasn’t looking. And then she made me keep him.”
I can almost taste the oppression.
And that, my dears, is the story of the Whale and the (rubbed out) Mouse in the House.