Once upon the time there was a Princess who fell on hard times.

Lost and far from home, she was forced to go live in a house with a big, scary thug.

She did not like living in proximity to him. He mostly left her alone, but he was rough. He had no manners and no idea how to behave. He would stare at her and freak her out. Didn’t respect her boundaries. Would come into her part of the house without warning and act like he generally owned the place (which actually he sort of did, before she came along).

She felt that he did not give her the respect she deserved and so whenever she saw him she would hiss and spit and jump at him and try and scratch him with her long sharp nails.

Baby Sister takes up the story:

Silly Whisper. She keeps trying.

But she should know you can never win a fight with The Big Cat. The Fij’ stands undefeated.

CURRENT SCORES

Fiji v Whisper: 40-something - Nil

Fiji v The Wictor: 1 - Nil

Oh yeah.

Because apparently we all want a piece of the action. This one is going for the sympathy vote.

(And yes thank you hundreds of passers by for your concern. I do see how close that is to his eye.

Next time I will remember to ask my cat to scratch elsewhere.

You’re welcome.)

Eight days ago we celebrated Baby Sister’s Fake Birthday. As opposed to her Real Birthday, which was a week ago, and her Birthday Party, which was on Saturday.

We had a fun and very low key time. She was delighted with her presents and cake and all the attention and … everything.

BTW, I have been reading up on how to take good snapshots. I have been learning lots of great, easy to follow rules. The kind of rules anyone should be able to remember, even in the heat of the moment.

For example, Rule Number One: Prepare your Scene. A rule covering everything from ensuring you have good lighting, to clearing background and foreground mess, to asking the person sitting for your portrait to please remove the chocolate cake from between her teeth.

Ignore the disastrous photos. I promise, a good time was had by all.

So, being a total glutton for punishment I spent last week making preparations for the party, which took place in our yard.

Just don’t ask for party photos. I was in charge of decorations, cleaning, food preparation, table laying, child wrangling, game organizing, adult social relations and repeatedly calling all the girls down from Baby Sister’s bedroom to please come bounce on the Bouncy Castle because I paid a lot of money for it to just be sitting there making a whooshing noise and swaying gently in the breeze.

The Daddy was in charge of Band Aids and photos. First he had to be reminded to get out the camera for the candle blowing. Then he decided to capture the moment with a blurry  iPhone video instead. Well, one candle blowing is just like another right? And we still have our memories…

I did get a few dark, blurry bouncing photos after the party was over!

So all is not lost

My baby is a genius … at backwards writing.

… and also psychologically scarred at the thought that a jellyfish might one day eat a train.

Also, blood. There has been a lot of it recently and it is traumatic. Blood on his leg-elbow from falling over. Blood on his chin from being pushed over. Blood on his finger after he pulled off a hangnail, leading him to bolt terrified from the TV room, screaming “There’s red on me! There’s red on me!”

He seems not to care that Cars bandaids cost $1.89 a packet. He just likes to replace them.

Meanwhile here is a photo of one of my all-time favorite foods:

Just above a picture of The Daddy’s most hated food:

I have found away around his strict ban: Secret Rhubarb Lunches. With the windows open. Then I brush my teeth. He is none the wiser.

Unfortunately not possible on weekends. We all have our cross to bear.

This weekend, however, my thoughts strayed from rhubarb. First we had this:

Made more exciting by torrential rain when the new roof was not quite finished. We all know I love a little drama, so why not?

In the end, it was all good, by which I mean we didn’t have to strategically position any buckets. No workers slipped off, and only 3 small bits of plaster fell off the ceiling from all the banging and thudding up there. Our new roof looks good. You know, the same but … um .. blacker. Although I am assured it will now be much less likely to leak and also cooler in summer.

Saturday afternoon the children and I celebrated the completion of the roof with a trip to a Folk Life Festival organized by our local school district and sponsored by the Big Yellow Arches. I know, right? With a pedigree like that it had to be a sad cruddy commercialized affair and a waste of an afternoon.  But I wanted to kill time and just the drive there and back would relieve me of a good 30 minutes, 30 minutes not involving TV or computers or shopping or eating or playing in the yard with the leftover building materials.

It turned out to be one of the best afternoons out I have had with my children, anytime, anywhere - and yet more proof that you should never judge a book. As if you need any more proof (and I obviously do). Just about every pioneer craft or activity  you can think of was represented - corn husking, cheese making, black powder firearms,  homing pigeons, blacksmithing, woodworking, horse shoeing, lassoing bulls, spinning, dancing, bee keeping, quilting, tin punching, cooking over an open fire… We chose to make rag dolls, paint gourds, mold models out of clay and write with nib and ink. We touched baby chicks and the kids each got to take an egg from underneath a chicken (the eggs have nothing printed on them, but still I am suspicious - surely their hens aren’t that prolific. The children don’t seem to care.) My favorite - we touched a snake and a baby alligator. My first time. The best description I could come up with for the way they felt was “handbaggy”.

Of course during all this I took exactly ZERO photos for posterity. Give me a break, I am a child wrangler, not a photographer. Someone give me a lasso and let me tie them to a tree and then I will manage a photo without losing one. Here are some pictures of the dolls instead. The one without the face is called “Really”. The one with the face doesn’t yet have a name but privately I am calling her “Scary”.

(Baby Sister may not grow up to be an artist…)

Not sure whose face is scarier here, but the doll is a big hit.

Oh, and you want to know where is the T-Bot’s doll? Well, he spent his time slaving over a love note instead. Immortalized by yours truly in grainy, blurry detail:

The big museums in town could learn a lot from today’s festival. Not at all a bad afternoon out for a grand total of $5.  And in the end, there wasn’t even a Big Mac in sight

The Daddy has been hitting the French section at the Fancy Schmancy Library in the Big City to try and edumacate the kids …And his latest find really brought it home to me that culturally, I am not French at all.

Like, in the least. Because… well …

To be honest, I am not sure what bothers me about this story. I mean, in our family we love the book my kids like to call Poopoo sausage, and that other one about the mole with a turd on his head. This one is also supposedly a genuine folk story which has been handed down the generations, until some very - um - disturbed person saw fit to publish it.

As a childrens story.

Yes, I am very possibly a prude.

But I will let you be the judge. I put it to the popular vote. Am I the only one who finds it extremely difficult to reconcile herself to a childrens book about a deformed rooster who puts things up his bottom?

In case you need it, a little more information to help you in your decision:

(Spoiler alert! I am about to tell the whole story! Stop here if you would rather buy the book. You know, as a Christening present or something. )

This is Moitie de Coq. I am sure that there are more elegant ways to translate his name but to avoid fits of the giggles, I am going to call him Half a Rooster. He is called Half a Rooster because he is exactly that: he has one leg, one wing, one eye and half a beak.

And here is what happens to Moitie de Coq: his mother, who has improbably lent a sack of grain to the King at some point in the distant past (one wonders in return for what kind of favors, ahem) sends her half a son off to the Big Smoke to get it back. On the way through the forest he meets a fox, who will only allow Moitie de Coq to pass if he hides him and takes him along too. Moitie de Coq has to think very hard about where to hide him. Finally he realizes that there is only one place possible.

You know what happens next. Yes, he meets a wolf, who also wants to tag along. He gives strict instructions to the wolf not to eat the fox and hop!

(I have omitted some of the more disturbing images from this story. For example, the ones where the wolf and the fox had to do a run-up before they jumped).

OK, this one is quite surprising. Moitie de Coq needs to cross the river next. Who would have thought that a river would also want to go on an adventure?

Some very strange French peasants in the distant past and their many ancestors who kept this wonderful story alive. That’s who.

But apparently there is still enough room in there for more! Luckily for this giant!

So, Moitie de Coq arrives at the palace and instead of giving Moitie de Coq his sack of grain the King cons him into spending the night in the Royal Henhouse. Along with 50 ferocious hens who promptly attack him. Soon to be ex-hens thanks to Hidden Weapon Number One! Carting that fox along had to be useful for something!

(I mean, what is a children’s book without slaughter?)

You guessed it, next he gets put in the sheep pen and almost gets squashed, until Wolf emerges to help.

(I got a little bored with the pictures by this point).

River comes in useful when the King traps him in an oven, following which the King gives up his sack of grain and Moitie de Coq starts home, no doubt rather lighter, although still not quite himself…

until the King chases him in anger and Giant emerges to finish him off.

Ooof. No doubt a relief for Moitie de Coq.

I was going to say: Martin! Censor this one before your children see it! But on second thoughts, why bother?  Thousands of French children are probably splitting their sides right now.

So, people, vote please! Disturbing or pas du tout?