Verbose

If anyone knows how somebody visited this blog from the page of an engineering firm in Russia (this one, actually), I'd be fascinated to hear it. Blog stats are wierd and wonderful things, and I could spend far too much time obsessively refreshing them and wondering who my fan in the Philippines might be. (If it's you, hi! Stop by the comments and tell me all about yourself.)

In other news, we are in for a whole lot of trouble when Mabel gets older. (Okay, this isn't exactly news.) Her brother is as transparent as a sheet of glass - he is completely devoid of guile, and no matter what he's done, he'll always tell us about it. Mabel, in contrast, is full of shite, and I say that in the most loving way. She just told me that her granny just spoke to her on the phone and said that it's morning time so we can definitely turn on the TV. (She's not napping, and I couldn't get her to stay in her room, but at least, so help me, I can keep the TV off for an hour. Is that too much to hope for?)

B brought Mabel to school this morning, and drop-off was painless. When I picked her up at 11.30, though, she was a little teary. First she informed me, hiccupping, that "I'm not crying. My eyes are just a bit wet because I ... didn't get that little bike I wanted yesterday in the playground." Pure fabrication. Her teacher told me she'd spent most of the morning, once she got upset and decided it was time to miss me, talking about how Mummy hadn't done this, that, or the other. Miss L said, apologetically, "I do usually try to give weight to their concerns... but I think she's just... you know..."
"I know," I said."She just likes to talk."

She's playing with the dollhouse. Doll 1 just said to doll 2, wearily, "I don't have any patience for this." At moments like this, I'm really happy I don't give into my first instinct and swear like a particularly blasphemous sailor every time my kids drive me bananas.