My sons are absolutely obsessed with the Titanic. It started after DH told them the story at bedtime, and has grown out of all proportions so that they now want a story about a different sinking ship every night.
Yesterday evening, when I got in from work, they were both sprawled on the sofa, watching the Titanic movie again.
“Mumm-eeee,” they squealed, immediately bouncing into action to kick off the most frenetic two hours of my day.
We fast-forwarded the ‘kissing bits’ and got to the part where the boat hits the iceberg and the seawater comes rushing in, which always grips them until they’re wide-eyed – their pupils dilated – with an emotion I can’t quite define.
And that’s when the torrent of questions started.
“Mummy, how many doors did the Titanic have? What was it made of? Wasn’t it stronger than the iceberg? What happened to the iceberg? How many rats were on board?”
“I know Mummy, let’s make an iceberg!” [requiring ice, water, a plastic bottle, pens and paper].
I love getting home from work, but I must admit, after my commute and long day, my head feels like it might actually burst if I’m asked one more question I can’t answer, or I’m thrust into a Blue Peter-style project that simply can’t wait until tomorrow.
Upstairs, I finally managed to chase them into bed, only to be met with a barrage of demands that I stay with them until they’re asleep.
“Mummy, don’t go,” whimpered a by-now alarmed BB, coming down from his watery special effects-induced adrenalin high and entering over-tired territory.
“I’m scared the house is going to sink…”
Cue another 25 minutes of cuddles and reassurances that we’re not at sea.
Next time, they’re watching the romantic bits instead – even if it means listening to that Celine Dion song.