“Oh my god,” a friend whispered to me this morning, “we got caught doing it.”
I thought she meant in a park or the back of the cinema.
“Where?” I asked, already smiling. I loves me a good embarrassing anecdote that involves me picturing my friends naked.
“At home,” she said. “In our bedroom.”
I thought that was allowed. Don’t tell me we’ve been doing it wrong.
But it turns out it wasn’t where she was caught so much as by who.
Short of hanging a tie on the door handle, they’d done everything right – in that they’d locked the door. This should have, in theory, guaranteed privacy.
But there was a second door. The one which opens onto their balcony.
The only warning they had was a click. My friend reefed the doona up and over herself and her husband and turned to find her children at the end of the bed.
“What are you guys doing?” she asked her kids.
“Nothing,” said her 9 year old daughter, Girl9, while Boy5 just stared and grinned. “What are you guys doing?”
“Nothing,” said my friend, albeit nervously.
There was a pause.
“So why don’t you have any clothes on, Mum?” asked Girl9.
And at this point I have to hand it to my friend for quick thinking.
“Your Dad was just checking my moles,” she told her kids.
Brilliant. Except for one tiny detail.
“So why does Dad have to be naked to do that?”
Not that I’d have fared this well this far into the conversation, but this would have had me umming and ahhing like a fridge about to cark it.
But my friend had it covered.
“I’ve just finished checking his,” she lied.
I’ve never been caught out by my kids. For their sake I hope I never am. I’m not sure my reflexes are fast enough for neither the doona nor the excuse for what we were doing.
I’d have to go with the truth.
“Right now? Wishing we didn’t have kids.”
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