It's taken many weekends and weeknights of sanding, more sanding and painting...

 

but Charlie's big-boy bed is finally finished. And to think it's come all the way from a little old house in Nethercote, across the Tasman, to Wingatui. I bet old Billy Fourter never thought in a million years that a little Charlie Morrison would be sleeping in it.

This is what happens when you encourage your children to be independent.

For about two months now, I have been asking Bern to lop off a low-hanging branch that stops the clothesline from turning. This week he finally agreed to do it. Except instead of just lopping off the small branch, he decided to saw of the entire bough. Which landed ON the clothesline. And broke it. Just like that. Snapped the top clean off.

To say I was angry would be a bit of an understatement. The broken top of the clothesline sat on our back lawn for a few days while I seethed and drove our washing into Mosgiel to dry on a friend's line. Then finally I had the idea (yes, I'm taking the credit for it) to flip the top over and re-attach it. Which worked. And provided some free entertainment for our neighbours, who watched our almost-divorce from a safe distance. Unfortunately the line is lower now, so if you're not careful, the sheets drag on the ground. Which drives me insane. But at least I have a clothesline again. And I will never, ever ask Bern to trim any branch again. Ever. Which was probably his plan all along.

Charlie likes helping me with the fruit. Today he especially enjoyed tipping the plums out onto the kitchen floor and skidding all over them while I frantically tried to save them. At least he decided to help me pick them all up. So he could tip them all again.