“Why is she doing that?!” Tracey demanded, racing into the bathroom to grab our daughter.
My wife had only just walked into the house.
The question I really wanted answered was, why does Tracey always come home just when things are going to pot?
The she Tracey was referring to was, in this case, Miss3. And the answer to my wife’s question?
“Everybody out!” I’d yelled at the kids half an hour earlier. “Turn the telly off, put your electronics on the table and go outside and play.”
From the uproar you’d think I’d just cancelled Christmas.
When I was young we weren’t allowed in the house during the day. Ostensibly, it was because Mum was cleaning, although I now suspect she was sitting on the lounge sipping Chardonnay and ogling Ray Martin.
But my point is we left the house. Trying to muster my kids outside, and keep them outside, is like trying to juggle jelly – I might catch a couple of them trying to slip back into the house but one inevitably slips through my fingers.
“There’s nothing to do,” moaned Master10.
Nothing to do!
Eventually they’ll start up a game of tag or soccer or throwing rocks at each other and things are sorted. Sometimes, like today, the kids turn on a tap and chase each other with cups of water. Just plain old fashioned fun.
Meaning I could get back to watching YouTube vids of Penn Point or legendary eighties rock.
Which I’d happily been doing for a good fifteen minutes when suddenly there was a commotion from the back yard.
“Arrrggghhh!!” came the screams. “She’s stepped in poooooo!!!”
Our dog, Jazz, has a habit of leaving turd mines throughout the yard.
“Who has?” I asked over the balcony, although I knew immediately. Miss3 was chasing he siblings around the yard, trying simultaneously to run and touch them with her foot. “Don’t do that,” I called down to her. It took several calls of her name to grab her attention. “Just wash your feet under the tap,” I told her and walked back inside.
I’d say less than a minute later there was another scream – this time from a much closer proximity. The bathroom, in fact.
“Dad!” yelled Master10. “She’s standing in the sink washing poo off her feet!”
And she was.
Which, of course, is when Tracey came home and found us.
“Where would she even get it into her head to do this?” Tracey asked, lifting her down.
“I have no idea,” I told her, shaking my head.
And provided she continues to be too busy to read tonight’s post, neither will she.
“Raising a family on little more than laughs”
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