And that was that; we now sail off into the sunset, a family of people who have weathered chickenpox and lived to tell the tale.
The spud spent some happy moments this evening pointing at various diminishing spots and saying 'chickenpops going away!' and I wondered for a moment what he thinks about it all. I wondered if he was expecting birds to come flying out of his skin.
I do find it amazing what he manages to syphon out of our ridiculous language and I get a feeling for how my poor French in-laws must feel when they have to listen to me tiptoing through their language like a drug-addled elephant. He'll be tripping along gaily through a sentence when he'll come across a word he doesn't know and he'll sub in for it randomly with the likes of 'that one that way' or 'my blue big up there'.
It's not just my son; it's Universal Toddler Charades; I see parents playing it all the time. 'Ball? Is it ball? Bell? Bar? Bear? Bear! You want Bear! Teddy bear? Bear ball? Bear poo? Bear what? Bear book! Yesssss! Which bear book? This one? This one? This one? There are no other... JUST SHOW ME!
It's when he forgets which language he's in and starts asking me for something by its toddlerised French name that I realise that I have no hope; usually the answer is just to get the ice-cream out and have done with it. Clearly we are all back to SNAFU.