I'VE just found out there are two sets of children living at my place. Firstly there are the two I gave birth to.
These are the ones responsible for my stretch marks, my first grey hair and the destruction of both my pelvic and carpeted floors.
These two little treasures have been genetically designed (and I'm pointing fingers directly at hubby's half of the gene pool here) to push all my buttons.
These two I know only too well. They're the little darlings I drag out of bed every morning, pump full of Cornflakes and push in the direction of the bus stop while trying to keep my screaming to under 200 decibels.
These are the children who raid my kitchen at all hours, eat ice-cream out of the container, drink milk out of the carton, stick their grubby little fingers straight into the Nuttella jar and still have the nerve to look me straight in the eye and swear they didn't do it – even though chocolate hazelnut spread is all over their faces (and every other surface in the kitchen).
Ah yes, I'm talking about the two offspring living in my house who truly believe money does grow on trees, the right to receive pocket money (whether they have done the dishes or not) is written in the household constitution, bringing home school notes is “too much hassle”, the volume on the telly has to be adjusted to a level that includes the neighbours in our program choices, and anything green, or remotely resembling a vegetable, served up for dinner must be viewed as a deliberate attempt by the lady of the house of poisoning.
However, in addition to these two oh-so-delightful children, it seems there are another two kids also living at my place. I've been told all about them, and, as far as kids go, they sound okay.
Many of my friends have met them and have lovely stories to tell about their encounters with these two.
The creepy part is, I've never heard, let alone seen, either of these kids. Only ‘other mothers' have this superpower.
I've got to say these other two children sound too good to be true. For starters, it is claimed they say “please” and “thank you” – without prompting. Shock. Horror.
One thing's for sure, these other mothers certainly can't be referring to my eldest ‘cos he hasn't uttered anything more audible than a grunt or a fart for six months now, and as for my youngest, well she's currently going through a ‘Paris Hilton' phase and “thank you” and “please” are optional extras reserved for the day before her birthday or Christmas.
The word is these two ‘other children' will eat absolutely anything put in front of them.
Can you imagine?
When asked what they would like for dinner, these two politely reply: “Anything will be fine thank you; please don't go to any trouble.”
Zucchini, spinach, Brussels sprouts or even whole fish with the head still attached and an eyeball winking up at them from the plate won't phase these two kids.
If my two catch sight of a piece of broccoli, their gag reflexes kick in before I've even dished up.
These other two kids, who only other mothers have seen, know how to take turns, share games, leave the last biscuit on the plate, return their empty glasses to the kitchen and close a car door without slamming the dog's tail.
Where can I get me a couple of these kids? ‘Cos I'm telling you, if I ever find them I'll be serving my two with their eviction notices.
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