I am a failure to my children. They have tested my intellect and found it wanting. Just call me Thick Mum from now on. Honest, I don't mind. I'm used to it.
It all started off so well, too! I thought I was being Nice Mum, borrowing this Raven Interactive Game DVD from the library for them (if you didn't know, Raven is this slightly bonkers kids programme with different challenges presented by 'Raven' who is like a mad, Scottish Jamie Theakstone in a black cape). So far, so good. Cries of joy rang around the house when I produced said borrowed Raven game. Hooray for Mum!
Then I put it on and we started playing. I say 'we' but actually some of the riddles and things were a bit hard for a six year old and a four year old so I ended up answering them. Trouble was, the riddles etc were a bit hard for a thirty-six year old woman too (ie me) and I caused our character (Kenra I think we were collectively called) to be caught by a demon. "You got it wrong!" daughter shrieked, bursting into tears. "Now we've lost a life!"
"I hate this game, I don't want to play any more!" wailed son. "Can't we watch CBeebies?"
"Why did you give the WRONG ANSWER?" bellowed daughter, flouncing off. "It's all your fault!"
Bloody Raven, giving the game away, revealing my feet of clay! You're going straight back to the library, pal - and you'll never be allowed back in our house! Not until I've swotted up a bit on my general knowledge anyway...
29 years on, nearly there
2 hours ago