Erin and were in the corner grocery last week and the owner (who very kindly stocks Rice Krispies for us) started jabbering away at her in French. To my utter amazement, she nodded and smiled and said oui. Since I am naturally suspicious, I asked her later what he'd said to her and she really had understood every word.
As I've mentioned, the girls wear uniforms to school. I really like the concept, since it cuts down on laundry and there's no drama about what to wear. However, the uniforms are made out of material roughly the consistency (and durability) of cardboard. When they complain, I usually say something sympathetic like, "I don't want to hear it," or "Deal with it."
Last week I was ironing the shirts (the only down side of uniforms) which takes me forever since I really don't know how to iron. Every time I iron one side, the other side gets messed up again so I have to back and iron that side, whereupon the first side gets messed up and, well, you get the idea. Anyway, I finally managed some semblance of 8 ironed shirts, and put them in the girls' closets. Please don't ask why the girls don't do this themselves; their idea of housekeeping is to lift up their feet when the vacuum comes by. Yeah, yeah, I've really got to do something about that. So, Claire came out this morning wearing a shirt that looked like it had been dragged through the street. I was horrified. I knew I'd done a better job than that.
I asked her why the shirt was so wrinkled. "Oh," she said brightly, "when I get them from my closet they're really stiff and smooth. I can't wear them like that, so I roll them up in a ball and mush them around in my hands until they're softer."
Yes, she's still alive. Barely.
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