I have always known that DS1 is a rascal. For a baby who entered the world silently crying, he has definitely found his way to be noticed!
If there was a ponytail to be pulled in nursery, DS1 was more than willing to oblige. If there were cheeks to be pinched, DS1 was your man. If there were shorts to be pulled down DS1 was the cheeky, little munchkin who would be in fits of infectious giggles as he did the deed.
His favourite word/adjective/verb is ‘poo/poopy/pooping’ and he takes every opportunity to work those into every conversation, accompanied by belly aching laughter. If ‘on command farting’ were an Olympic sport, he would be the Michael Phelps of the ‘event’.
It must have been when he was around 7 years old that he discovered his superhero power; the power to aggravate the living daylights out of his twin sister. Generally not known for his ability to concentrate for long periods of time, his commitment to tormenting his 2 minute older sis is surprisingly focused and determined. After pick up, the middle row of seats of my car would be DS1’s stage. Trapped, without any escape route, DD would often be subjected to a torrent of teasing – purely for her brother’s personal entertainment.
One day when ferrying the kiddos from school to activities, my second born was pushing everyone’s buttons, and frankly behaving like an expat brat (translation – ‘demanding and ungrateful’). Unable to participate in his own football training due to injury, I told him he could either attend his club’s presentation about his Easter Manchester trip with DH or come with me to DD’s netball training. Faced with this choice DS1 amped up the obnoxious levels, and so I made the choice for him.
Stomping off to my car I could swear I saw puffs of white-ish steam whistle from his nostrils and ears. Horrid Henry came to mind. With every movement he huffed, puffed whilst deliberately turning around to throw me daggers’ looks. To this day I am surprised my passenger door survived the slam. Together with DD we drove in pre-teen, sulky silence to the next venue.
When we arrived at the next venue I asked DS1 to go ahead and sign us all in. All he had to do was enter into the logbook our name, time, reason for being at this school after hours and phone number. On entering the venue a lovely friend who was standing behind DS1 when he signed in giggled as she asked me ‘do you know what your son wrote for ‘reason for visit’? Exasperated by this stage, I am sure my eyes rolled to the heavens…..’What now?’ I grimaced inwardly as Horrid Henry once again came to mind. ‘Boring netball’ came the response as my friend struggled to maintain a straight face.
I slumped on the nearest bench in dismay as DS1, to my relief and before I said anything I might regret, wandered as far away from me as possible.
Courtside catch up with other mums of netball addicted daughters was a welcome distraction to the point that half way through the session, I felt DS1 had served his time and I offered him my phone as an olive branch; something to entertain him for the second half of his sister’s netball training.
Assuming he would be meserised by Instagram and Facebook, I didn’t give it a second thought.
How was I to know the berated, chastised little scamp still had mischief in him??
Within minutes, and unbeknownst to me, he managed to send DH a message from my phone asking DH where he was….the troublesome scamp maintained (on my behalf) that DS1 had only gone to my car to get his book and had returned to the training pitch at the initial venue. DH, needless to say, switched into panic mode. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I haven’t seen him since he left with you’. ‘I am in a meeting’. ‘Where is DS1?’