“The worst thing in the world has happened,” came Miss8’s emotionally charged whine from the back seat of the car.
“Some kids don’t have food for dinner and the worst thing has just happened in the back seat of our car?” I asked.
“That’s amazing. Will you be doing your own interviews with the media or would you like me to represent you?”
“Worst things don’t happen everyday. There’s bound to be some public interest once the newspapers and news programs hear of it.”
We were driving through Hobart on our way to pick up a ‘new’ computer for the kids – a ten year old Mac for $150. I’d found it online while I was looking for a cheap replacement for my Apple keyboard which, probably due to coffee spills, had recently opted out of i’s, o’s & u’s. I know they aren’t the most common of vowels but they’re still surprisingly useful.
The older three kids had piked out on coming with me for the same reason Tracey had: they didn’t want to. I hadn’t actually told anyone what I was picking up.
For the younger two the lure of ‘a surprise’ was too much for them to resist.
Although, when they were asking for clues and I mentioned it was something to do with homeschooling, Miss6 clearly thought she’d been scammed.
“Urgggh,” she moaned. “Can we turn around and go back now?”
“Come on,” I said, trying to drum up the enthusiasm. “It’s something to help you with your homeschooling. Have a guess.”
“Is it an adult?” she tried.
By which I’m assuming she doesn’t think anyone on the bus currently qualifies. Well played, Miss6. Well played.
Thankfully, this was the point at which Miss8 cut in with her Breaking World News Update so I was saved the embarrassment of trying to argue how very grown up I am with a six year old.
“The worst thing in the world?” I repeated when Miss8 didn’t immediately answer my query on the actual severity of whatever had happened in the seats behind me. “You sure now?”
“Maybe not the most worst,” she admitted reluctantly while her little sister sat beside her still insisting I do a uey.
There was a pause as this was given due consideration too.
“Probably not,” Miss8 conceded.
We settled, after much deliberation, on eighth: the eighth worst thing in the world had just happened.
“Dirt,” said Miss8 when I pressed her to reveal the disaster. I wanted time to prepare a statement for the inevitable press throng.
Now I was worried it was the worst thing in the world, as I pictured she’d dragged mud into the bits of my car you can’t get to easily with a vacuum and a belly like mine.
“Dirt. What about it?” I asked, worried.
I needn’t have been.
“Dirt got on my thumb,” she sighed, “and now I can’t suck it.”
Raising a family on little more than laughs
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