In an effort to get the younger children into bed a little faster this evening I proposed a race, where the last one with teeth brushed, pyjamas on, and into bed would be bestowed the title of “stinkiest, most bogey ridden bog monster of the week”. I have never seen them move so quickly; particularly Miss Eight, who thundered up the stairs in the same manner one might if trying to flatten them to the floor in the process. Lots of stamping, lots of noise, and not much acceleration.
I followed along behind just in time to see Miss Seven throwing clothes from her body in speeded up motion. To an unsuspecting observer, it either appeared an enormous imaginary vacuum cleaner was hovering overhead, or an episode of the Benny Hill show was being filmed.
Discovering her pyjamas were on the top bunk, she scaled the side of the bed like Spiderman in a hurry, and had them half pulled over her head at the same time as trying to descend the ladder, and make for the bathroom. Somewhere in the middle of all of this, the perfect plan fell apart in the same way that so often happened to Wile E Coyote. A moment’s indecision left her in mid air, mid bedroom, with legs and arms flailing.
She certainly has the reflexes of Spiderman.
An instinctive grab at the curtains ripped them from the pole, and turned them into an unlikely machine gun - firing curtain hooks across the room in all directions. She slammed into a pile of soft toys on the floor - they too scattered to the four corners.
Silence. For a few moments.
And then the screaming started.
After lifting her back to her feet, and checking that (a) legs and arms were pointing the right direction, (b) joints still bent in the direction they were supposed to, and (c) no grazes or cuts had magically appeared, I started laughing. Apparently laughing at a child who just spectacularly failed at “being Peter Pan” isn’t funny, although it did raise a snorted giggle amongst the tears.
“What on EARTH were you doing? You can’t fly like Peter Pan! You need fairy dust to fly! You know that!”
Another spluttered giggle.
The next ten minutes turned into the kind of circular conversation you can only have with a seven year old… “please stop crying”, “but it hurts”, “you’re fine”, “but it hurts”, “you need to go to sleep now”, “but it hurts”, “it will be better in the morning”, “but it hurts”…
She did eventually calm down. She will be fine. She now knows that she definitely can’t fly either.