It’s half-term here and the cubs are with me.
Whilst the wearing down of my energy levels begins, I’m eternally grateful that they’re here.
Once they’re fed, they’re playing boisterously with one another. Watching them, I reflect on the rough and tumble that I had with my sisters growing up; it was great fun.
I also think back to my risk tolerance, which was obviously a lot higher back then.
They fight, wrestle, kiss and cuddle but every move seems to bring their heads dangerously close to every corner in the room that I’d never noticed before.
I flinch a lot but I try not to step in. I’m a great believer in learning from experience, as long as that experience doesn’t involve surgery.
They then decide that they need to be outside. I can’t agree more. It’s about 3C with ice still on the ground, but there’s no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing.
Nah; I don’t believe that either. It’s horribly cold. I send them out anyway.
She’s off with the keys and heading for the garage; she wants her archery set. I’m not out there to supervise and wonder if I need to be. I trust her. The only rule is that there is no shooting if her brother is down range.
I guess we’re at the crossroads where I have to relinquish some of that responsibility to them, well, more to her as she is older and know that whatever will be will be.
Helicopter parenting can do more damage than a bump on the head.
Here are two occasions when I have stepped in; I was ironing in my room and they were in her room; the following sentences had me running:
“It’s time for the sacrifice!”
“We can either chop your head off, or half of your head off”
I think she’s been doing history at school.