Preadolescence: the child wants a lock. Ha!
Last night, the oldest of my children was reading a comic from 'The Odyssey' to his brother. We are not for nothing, but we are very Homer . The scene, contrary to what is usually my family becoming, was so idyllic that those creatures did not seem to have my last name.
The book was fat, eye, with much depth, much substance and much Ulysses up and down , nothing of squalid and birriose adaptations. That is, the high of the first. The edition obviated, I confess, the finger hex, because we are choked by the classic Greek. It's what YouTube has, which disperses us.
For a few minutes they seemed (seemed) civilized, educated, people eating with the napkin in their lap and knowing what fork is used for rice. I thought I saw, even, that they had become blond, which is the hair color of the cuckoo children.
But that was nothing more than a vile cheating, damn it.
Our authentic identity translates, in reality, into a permanent noise. A day of noise is tolerable, because children, you know. Two days, children, you know. Three days. To the fourth, with the brain drilled by decibels, only the anxiolytics save you from the abyss . Or beer at heart. And the problem is that we have been without school for a month and a half and the thing does not point to calm, but quite the opposite.
My children are increasingly feral and have stopped wearing shoes . And combing. They smell like chlorine as a hospital and it is very likely that at noon the legañas have not yet taken off. They jump and laugh at times, sometimes even with laughter from the brakes. Only they understand the joke and roll over the floor while holding the gut, an unequivocal symptom that the viscera of pure descojone take off .
They alternate it with wrathful lapses, terrible as typhoons, which leave a devastated landscape, full of tears and magnificent swear words. That's when cereals, lentils, forks are thrown. Someday, God knows, we will end up in the emergency room with a carved eye. And let's see how I explain it to the facultative lord and the fiscal lord.
One day I threatened to take them to a reformatory, but they, the very gañanes, opened their eyes a lot and burst in unison: "Rhymes with rotating! ", And began to take a few swirling pinches that threw a part of injuries with very dark bruises, such as cardinal's cassocks.
If it were not for the scene of 'The Odyssey', I would say that they have even forgotten to read and the four basic operations, if one day they knew them. These creatures of mine do not have school orders on vacation, it is not going to be that their tender brains are saturated.
And I say: how harmful is for your neuronitas a 'Santillana Holidays' or similar? I do not say that they read Stephen Hawking (the Universe has it in his glory) or novels of Tólstoi, but what do I know, some divisions, some tildes, a 'how are you', a he. Well, nothing. Zero minutes dedicated to intellect equals all minutes destined for evil. Thus, among the rotating pinches, the tablet and the pool are cracking a summer of parasites that neither Chabelita. But I don't have a Cantora who holds bums , so (against the pedagogical criteria of the happy jipis school they go to) tomorrow I present myself with two notebooks to review the rivers of Spain, the circulatory system or whatever is learned in Primary.
As they walk without trade or benefit, free as anarchists, the dead hours of the nap are the perfect breeding ground for hatching. The other day, with some chopsticks sharpened by treason, a brik and three clips, they made a crossbow capable of crossing mammals. And so everything.
When does school start?
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