Example one:
It was just silent in the lounge room, save for Sesame Street. I assumed that because I couldn't hear Millie singing 'Old MacDonald' or hear Pippa crying (teething and sick, again) it was all okay. Pip crawled back into the room with three dummies. I swear the child is a dummy ninja. I can never find any, yet she crawls off into her room and comes back with one in her mouth, one in each hand and a look of unbridled, pacified joy.
I hear Millie sitting at the dining table behind me playing with her cars. Then I realise it's a little TOO quiet. I turn around to see Millie sifting through my purse with a handful of change.
'Mum? I'm going to put this in my moneybox. Please get it for me. Now.'
The child is a
Example two:
It was very quiet in the dining room one day, and when I went exploring for Millie, I found her with a bundle of towels on the bathroom floor. She closed the door on me and said 'It's okay Mum, I'm cleaning it up.' She'd been washing the bathroom floor with a facewasher. Thankfully she is not a kid who cleans with toilet water, she's been in love with the mixer tap since we showed her how to use it.
I rue the day we bought the step for the bathroom.
Example three:
I went to make toast for the girls and after some silence, I heard Pip bellowing. I came into the room to find her on all fours on the kid's table, having scaled the chairs to get up there. We're trying to teach her how to get down, we haven't been entirely successful yet.
Example four:
Whilst I have been typing example three, Millie was sitting next to me. I have just turned around and she is no longer watching my typing intently. She's sticking stickers on the lounge room windows.
This is why we can't have nice things.
