A Man Of The Cloth

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My little boy is growing up.

“No!” Tracey snapped at him as he stood over the sink. “Stop!”

Master10 was about to do the dishes. He’d put the plug in and was holding a cloth under the tap. He froze.

“What?” he asked. “I’m doing what you told me to do.”

Tracey assured him he was not. She turned the tap off and took the cloth.

“That is not a wash cloth, it’s a tea towel. That,” she said, pointing at the bottle beside him on the bench, “is not cleaning liquid, it’s…” she paused to collect herself, “Body Shop.”

“Who cares, so long as I’m cleaning it up?”

Who cares? How can he have spent ten years in this household and not understand about Body Shop?

I stepped in about now because I feared if I didn’t I was going to have to clean up a lot of mess myself. Mostly blood. Mostly Master10’s.

I decided to try a little humour.

“Ooo!” I said from the dinning table, raising my hand. “I know the answer to this one. Your Mum cares.”

Master10 laughed.

Seriously, he wasn’t doing a thing right tonight.

“Why don’t you just listen to what I say and do it properly?” Tracey suggested to Master10 with a meaningful look.

Fortunately, at this point Miss11 came forward. She clearly had a similar plan to mine, only she executed hers with greater success.

“Aww,” said Miss11, stepping in to give her Mum a hug while they both stared at Master10. Stared? Glared? Maybe one of each. “He’s growing up. He’s becoming a man!”

Ain’t that the truth.

But, of course, if he doesn’t learn to listen and stay away from certain scented soap and lotions, he may not.

“Raising a family on little more than laughs”

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