20 May 2013

The Morning Shower.

The fearsome four year old is outside the bathroom door:  'Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!'

Me:  'Darling,  I'm in the shower.'

Him:  'Mummy! Mummy!'

Me:  'It'll have to wait sweetheart. I'm washing my hair.'

Him:  'Mummy!'

Me:  'Don't come in.  The students are around. I don't want them to see me.'


Scarily long silence.

There's no crying coming from either of them.

Me:  'Is your brother all right?  Are you all right?'

Unison: 'Yes Mummy!'

I've made sure the windows are closed before even contemplating getting in and that there's nothing dangerous lying around, given them the 'nice boys with no fighting get nice scooter rides to school' lecture.  They're both clearly still alive.  The eldest will be reading, the youngest is still waiting patiently.

Him:  'Mummy!'

Me: *exasperated voice* 'Honestly darling, I'm just taking my morning shower. Everything is fine.  I'll be out in a few minutes.'

Him:  'But, Mummy...'

Resignedly, the water is switched off rather earlier than anticipated, but I am clean.  It has been a short lived, perfunctory pleasure.  The warm towel is wrapped right around my shoulders and, bracing myself for whatever chaos may await me today, mumbling about how there is honestly never any peace, I open the door to him.

'Mummy! What comes after 109?'


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