The house was as groomed as any bride heading off to meet her betrothed at the alter.
Tracey had a friend coming over for a chat so she’d spent a fair amount of time touching the place up – you know, sweeping toys to the window side of the beds and squirting some Glen20 about the place. That sort of thing.
And she tells me the place was nice and neat. Not The Real Housewives of Atlanta setting, but certainly no Hoarders: Buried Alive either.
Tea was served, and the natter was into it’s second quarter hour, when suddenly the house was filled with a series of bellows and screams worthy of B-grade horror movies, and the child of Tracey’s guest burst through the swinging doors from the lounge room with Master9 hot on his heels.
‘”Hey, stop running through the house!” both Tracey and her friend called out.
“No!” yelled Master9, and kept on going. “Ahhh!!”
“What’s going on?” called Tracey, hurrying towards the lounge room, worried something was actually wrong.
Nothing was wrong. Well, not by our standards.
“We’re being chased!” shouted back Master9, at which point Miss2 slammed open the doors and came, toilet brush first, into the hall.
I don’t know what it is about the toilet brush which has my two year old’s fascination at the moment, but somehow I don’t think running away as she brandishes the thing about like Captain Feathersword’s lesser known second mate on the SS Domestic is going to help.
Not that it really matters anymore, because in her eagerness to get through the doors and run the boys through she unwittingly (that’s the line her solicitor says he’ll take) slammed the bristles into her mother’s face.
So we don’t have a toilet brush beside the toilet anymore: it’s above the laundry sink. But in fact, given my wife’s low tolerance to bristles on her face, which I discovered during Movember, I’m surprised we aren’t being asked to clean any skiddies with our hands.
But I think this does go to show, no matter how much you clean your house before the guests come over, unless you can billet out the children it’ll soon become obvious just how much of a mess your place is in.
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“Raising a family on little more than laughs”