Tracey was in the kitchen when Miss3 shuffled in, slipping and sliding on the floor and asking for another drink of water.
“Did you spill your water?” Tracey asked her.
Tracey had set Miss3 up in front of the tellysitter so she could get some housework done. Dora was on. As usual.
“You shouldn’t let her drink in the lounge room,” I took great joy in admonishing my wife. “I thought that was a rule.” In fact, I thought Tracey made it up.
But I needn’t have worried about this. My youngest daughter hadn’t tipped her drink out on the carpet.
“I no spill drink,” said Miss3. “I wee.”
“No, you didn’t,” insisted Tracey, tossing a towel at Miss3’s feet before heading off to clean up the mess in the lounge room. “You spilled water.”
“No water,” insisted Miss3 right back, following her mother out of the kitchen. “I do wee in the lounge room. I Dorwa.”
And she had.
That wasn’t the worst of it. Not only did she pee in the lounge room, she’d stood on top of an upturned laundry basket first.
I beat Tracey to the next question but only because Tracey couldn’t form words, what with being in danger of stepping on her own bottom lip.
“Why would you stand on a laundry basket and wee?” I asked Miss3. Add that to the long list of questions I never guessed I’d need to ask as a parent.
My youngest daughter looked at the telly and pointed.
“I mermaid on a rocks,” she grinned. “Like Dorwa.”
I’m just glad Tracey hadn’t set her up to watch an episode of Peppa Pig and those suggestive muddy puddles.
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“Raising a family on little more than laughs”
