Cloud Nine

 I should have realised when the noise of jumping and running and general mayhem stopped and everything went quiet, but I made the mistake of presuming that, at  10.30  at night and after a busy day at school, he might actually be tired. He’s been in a mischevious mood all night though ,the last time I checked on him he covered my face with my hair and then threw some megablocks down my top.

 As I walk into the room the first thing I see is him drawing happily, his head bent down, his hands busy scribbling away. I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I look around and notice the wall by one of the beds and his younger brother’s mattress (younger brother has moved the sheets up with his sleeping kicks). In the fifteen minutes since I last checked on him he has been busy drawing suns and rain and happy little clouds on said walls and mattress. Then he looks up and I see, judging by the way he has been covering his face with blue felt tip that he has been probably trying to make himself into a happy little cloud as well.

 My first instinct is one of calm. I know he has a tendency to get the felt tips everywhere and to draw on himself – and his brother sometimes – which is why I always get him the super washable ones, a quick wipe of the flannel and he’s clean. Of course, it would have been better if I’d have remembered to take the pens out of his room, but too late to fret about that now. I call my husband to come and help by cleaning him up and then set to work trying to clean the walls and wipe clean mattress.

 At about the same time a dawning horror of realisation strikes both my husband and myself. My husband announces it first.

 “It’s not coming off!” he calls out, a note of desperation in his voice.

 “It’s coming off very very slowly on the walls” I reply as I look at the pens, suddenly remembering that they were a recent gift from the lads’ grandad, who does not see them very often and is not fully aware that it is prudent to always buy the super washable pens. The felt pens he got them are not washable. They are far from washable. As ever futile attempts are made to clean up the budding artist, a very incomplete success is made in that some, but by no means all comes off his face and I am forced to accept an uncomfortable fact.

 My son is going to head off to school the next day looking like a smurf. 

 The next day further attempts at cleaning prove futile and I write an apologetic note explaining the blue streaks on his face. Nothing is said about it, possibly because the teacher cannot hold her pen for laughing. Upon his return I run a bath and during it wash his face several more times. This is not easy, since he hates having his face washed and clings to me like a limpet, in a “if I’m going to have my face wet, you can get covered in water as well” type of silent statement. Eventually the pen is mostly removed, the tiny bit remaining will come off in the next day or so.

 He is in a giggly mood, clambering onto my shoulders once he is out and dressed in his pyjamas, pulling on my hair and jumping on the bed and moving my chin up and down, thinking it’s hilarious to see my jaw moving about. After a few minutes of this he decides to tell me something.

 “It not yellow” he announces.

 “Erm, what colour is it?” I reply, wondering what he is talking about.

 “It ‘maller!” he tells me confidently.

 “Ok,” I answer,  looking around the room for inspiration.

 “It bigger!” he shouts out happily, leading me to wonder if he is channelling the spirit of M C Escher.  

 “It not an animal!” he states finally and as I continue to look round the room I spot the Bob the Builder toy that comes complete with a guessing game on it and that his younger brother was playing with earlier. All makes sense now.

 “Go and get a story” I tell him directing him to the bookcase. He knows this part of the bedtime routine very well and returns with an “In the Night Garden Book” an epic tome entitled “Iggle Piggle’s Lost Blanket”. His younger brother wanders over and climbs onto my lap to see the story as well. As they both look I recount the saga of the missing piece of material, with the added anticipation of various flaps being lifted up to reveal other objects and characters. The book is about five pages long with one or two short sentences to each page. Makka Pakka had the blanket in the end.

 “Who had Iggle Piggle’s blanket?” I ask and am answered with a “Who had Iggle Piggle’s blanket?”. Younger brother is lying down, eyes half closed, making little attempt at trying to stay awake. I go for an easier option.

 “Did Makka Pakka or Upsy Daisy have the blanket?” pointing to both characters on the page.

 “Upsy Daisy!” comes the answer.

 I carry him into his bed in what will probably turn out to be a futile attempt at getting him to understand that yes, he really is tired. Honestly.  He looks up at me and gives me a big smile. Then he leans forward and grabs my hair, playing with it once more. He stops and looks fully at me then announces:

 “Give kiss a mummy” and places one on my forehead. I say thank you,  give him a goodnight kiss on his forehead and walk out of the room. The hair pulling, the pen escapades, nothing seems to matter. I’m on the ninth cloud.