So She'll Never Play at Wimbledon

Me: How are your tennis lessons going? 

Sophie: Really good! 

Me: Are you leaning lots of new stuff? 

Sophie: Yep! 

Me: Are you getting any better at it? 

Sophie: Nope! 

Me: But you're still enjoying it. 

Sophie: OH YEAH!

Me: That's my girl!

No Chance

Sophie was five years old and had built up quite a large population of imaginary friends, including an entire country with its own culture, customs and language.

One morning, while we were riding on the train from Raynes Park  to Waterloo, she was talking about the doings of some of the naughtier members of the community and getting quite irate about their bad behaviour.

Her high-pitched little girl voice and the frenzy she had worked herself into, switching from one imaginary character to the next at high speed, were a bit more than my overworked, under active brain could handle (obviously, I hadn't taken her advice on eating fish for breakfast).

We had reached Clapham Junction, when she paused for a few seconds. In my exhaustion, I grabbed onto the relative silence and heaved a deep inner sigh. Alas, too soon, as she immediately piped up again.

I snapped and said "Sophie" much too loudly and sharply for her happiness, or for the happiness of the people sitting near us. I now had a cross five-year-old glaring at me with several strangers backing her up.

In her most indignant (and very posh London) tone, she said "What?" and lifted one eyebrow at me.

I thought as quickly as as I could and suggested we play a game. "Let's see if you can get from this stop to the next without saying a word."

Sophie looked out the window at the platform, thought for a few seconds (during which my hopes soared), and then turned back to me and announced, simply and firmly, "I can't," and continued her story at the point where she had been so rudely cut off.

To make matters worse, not only did I not get the few minutes' respite I so desperately craved, I also had all of the previously glowering strangers now laughing at my expense.

When will I learn?

Brain Food

It was early on a Saturday morning and I'd been working hard all week, so I was exhausted.

Sophie was about four years old and at just about her chattiest level, telling me what her multitude of imaginary friends had been up to and trying to teach me some of her made-up language.

I finally begged for mercy by saying "Mommy's brain has a hard time waking up in the morning".

Did I really expect mercy? Did I honestly believe I would be given even a moment's peace?

My lovely daughter instantly replied "Well then maybe you should eat fish first thing in the morning.  It's brain food, you know".

Forgiveness Poem

My friend she copied my work
But the teacher thought it was me
And when she asked my friend who copied
She pointed and said, “It was she”

At break she said she was sorry
And told the teacher “it was I”
When she got back she promised to
Never ever ever again lie.

- Sophie, age 9