Super Eleven-Bat

“What are the symptoms of swine flu?” DH asked me this morning, sniffing and looking a bit sorry for himself.
“Well… I think you’d probably know if you had the flu, darling” I replied sympathetically, handing him a cup of tea and a tissue.

It was 7.00am, and all four of us had been up for over an hour. The Very Small Boy, never a particularly good sleeper, started fussing about at 5.00am and by 6.00, he’d woken up a rather irritable Small Girl, so we’d given up on the idea of further sleep and all come downstairs for breakfast.

“Come on, Sausage”, I said to the Small Girl, who’d just finished her Weetabix and was whining about turning on the television, “want to come upstairs and do your teeth?”
“No” said the Small Girl, and stormed off.
“Actually, it was a rhetorical question” I muttered to myself and, picking up the Very Small Boy, who was hanging desperately onto my trouser-leg, I followed her upstairs.

“Who are you going to play with this morning at Playschool?” I asked the Small Girl, trying to cheer her up.
“Waychel!” she replied, perking up noticeably.
“Oh great!”, I said, “and what game will you play?”
“It’s a chasin’ game, and she’s chasin’ me, and I’m Super Eleven-Bat!”
“Super Eleven-Bat?” I asked “that’s an interesting name, why are you called that?”
“Because she’s Super One-Bat and so I thought I’ll be Super Eleven-Bat!”.

I considered this for a minute, remembered the Small Friend in question had a favourite toy wombat and suggested:
“I think perhaps she’s “Super Wombat” darling – a wombat is a kind of animal who lives in Australia”.
"No, She’s Super One-Bat and I’m Super Eleven-Bat!” She insisted, close to tears now, and ran into the Very Small Boy’s room.

Once more, the Very Small Boy (now happily sitting on my hip and watching the proceedings with interest) and I followed her. She had pulled down a packet of nappies from the changing table, and was balancing precariously on its slippery surface in her sock-feet.

“Don’t do that, darling”, I said “you’ll go flying”. The Small Girl stopped what she was doing and looked at me in wonder.
“Up in the air?” she asked. I sighed and left the room.

Some time later, when we were all dressed and cleaned and brushed and ready for the day, DH decided it was time to extract himself and leave for work.
“I’d better run”, he said, handing me his empty teacup and giving me a kiss.
"You’re going to run to work?” I asked, and looked at him in mock horror. He gave me a withering look and backed away to kiss the children.

The Small Girl had already begun her routine “Daddy don’t go” tantrum, so I suggested we all wave to him from the window, which usually placates her enough for him to orchestrate an exit.

As he left the house, head bowed against the gusting wind, we all gathered at the window to wave enthusiastically. DH glanced up at us and, aware the neighbours might be watching, shyly gave a small and furtive wave. Then, bustling with quiet pride, he set off on his way to work.