My heart sinks as I see an e-mail from Smouldering Teacher announcing the annual Year 3 castle-building competition. This competes with the great cupcake bake-off and the costume for World Book Day as one of the top ten ways to torture mothers.
“And fathers,” says Sexy Domesticated Dad, gloomily scrolling down through the message. “I’ll be the one trying to glue matches together on Sunday evening with a sobbing child clinging on to my arm, not my wife. She’ll be too busy reading briefs. Pritt Stick has become a symbol of my oppression.”
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” says Middle Son brightly. “And actually the teacher said it doesn’t have to be a castle. He says we can use our imagination and do something completely different.” We both look at him hopefully.
“It could be a cityscape from the Middle Ages or even the Olympic velodrome. I’m going to do a replica of a village caught in the bubonic plague with Plasticine replicas of black rats and people with buboes.”
“You can’t do that,” I say, a hint of panic in my voice.
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“You might as well accept defeat now,” Eldest Son advises his younger brother. “Building castles is not part of Mum’s skill set.”
“Mum says that if you put your mind to it, you can do anything,” says Middle Son with determination.
“Look, it’s not the children who build the castle,” says Eldest Son in the tone he might adopt if he were explaining that Father Christmas doesn’t really exist. “It’s really a competition for the parents.” He runs off into the playground with Middle Son in hot pursuit, discussing the best way to build a bubo.
Alpha Mum comes over and tells us that she has heard from a very reliable source that Tiger Mother is going to make a chocolate replica of the Summer Palace with a series of handmade moulds. “I’m clearly an also-ran,” she says, her voice breaking.
“You can hold on to that moment of victory two years ago when your moat with real running water won,” I say to console her.
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“If we all refuse to participate, then there won’t be any competition,” suggests Yummy Mummy No 1 in rebellious mood. “Although I can’t face telling the teacher and seeing the disappointed look in those beautiful blue eyes.”
“Maybe you could soften the blow in some way?” suggests Sexy Domesticated Dad. “Suggest a suitable quid pro quo?”
“It would be very Big Society of you,” says Alpha Mum, cheered enough to slip in her favourite phrase du jour.
“I’ve heard that physical affection goes a long way in learning how to deal with disappointment,” I say, as we urge her back into the Year 3 classroom to deliver the bad news to Smouldering Teacher.