Michael: Mummy, what's that over there? [he's looking out of his bedroom window at the Docklands skyline in the distance] Is it Birmingham?
Me: No Michael, it's not Birmingham, it's London.
Michael: Where's Birmingham? Is it in that country that we used to be joined onto?
Me: (regretting once again my attempts to introduce plate tectonics and continental drift to one so young): No Michael, it's not in France. It's in the middle of England. Now, come on, it's bedtime.
Michael: I'm not tired.
Me: Come on now Michael, we've a busy day tomorrow and I've lots of work to do downstairs now (i.e. Coronation Street starts in 5 minutes)
Michael:Ouch!
Me: Are you ok Michael? Did you hurt yourself?
Michael: Yes, I banged my foot-thumb on my toybox.
Me: You mean your big toe.
[3 adorable little bedtime prayers, 2 of which I wrote myself - lots of thank yous and bless everyones]
Me: Goodnight Michael.
Michael: Good wee wee.
Me: G'dnight
Michael: Good poo poo.
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Hmmm - we still get running commentaries from the toilet:
"The Daddy poo has come out, but the Mummy poo doesn't want to..."
Freud would have a field day!
Oh - and Adam and Ruth were sitting at the dinner table while John and I finished getting dinner.
Adam: Ruth, what's your favourite colour?
Ruth (very emphatically): Chicken
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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