Before Miss3 entered the world I’d convinced myself she was going to be a boy. I’m so glad I was wrong.
“Look at my doodle!” Miss3 announced as she came thumping into the kitchen.
Naturally, we had company. In this case, my parents.
Conversation around the dining table abruptly halted and we all turned. Sure enough, Miss3 was holding a toy sauce bottle in front of her like a…well, like a doodle.
“What are you doing?” I asked her, feeling any semblance of decency ducking out of the room to hide from the feral child.
“I got a DOODLE!” she continued to exclaim joyfully, like a doodle was the most wonderfully funny looking thing in the whole wide world.
Which, let’s be honest, they sort of are.
“Aren’t you hilarious,” I told her, pretending to be thin-lipped but actually bursting with pride on the inside. It was hilarious. I just hoped my parents thought so too.
“Yes!” she grinned. “I funny.”
I should have left it there.
“Are you doing a wee with your doodle?” I asked, thinking I was the hilarious one now.
“Okay,” she said, and swung around to face my father and squeezed the toy bottle which was full of water.
Of course it was.
Meaning she effectively pissed on her Granddad’s leg.
To my father’s credit he politely chuckled, shook his leg and then carried on with the conversation like nothing had happened while Miss3 laughed and laughed and laughed, before running off with what I’m hoping won’t become her new catch cry.
“I love my doodle!”
So firstly, classy. No need to waste money on a finishing school with this one, there’ll be nothing left to teach her once she masters the shake.
And secondly, I’m glad she’s a girl because at least I can confiscate the toy sauce bottle.
Which I did as she climbed up into the bathroom sink to fill her toy bladder up again.
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“Raising a family on little more than laughs.”