They left me alone for a little too long yesterday.
The lapse in supervision has been noted and they have since resumed skin-to-skin contact.
As I write this, Mr 10 is proudly presenting his latest automotive masterpiece, awaiting my verdict on a scale of one to ten, accompanied by a torrent of technical specifications. Meanwhile, the mermaid has decided my back might as well be her very own chaise lounge.
I write because I need a record of what happened yesterday.
With children (and puppies) in the house, the impossible happened.
I had…
Personal space.
As every parent knows, when a preschooler goes suspiciously quiet, it’s rarely because she’s plotting world peace.
Like the caramelised veneer of a crème brûlée beneath an overzealous spoon, the reverie of ‘me time’ shattered.
It began with a voice.
So delicate.
So steeped in beguiling innocence, that suspicion seemed almost an insult.
“Mummy, can you help me?”
The innocent urgency of a shoelace that would loop but not tie; a puppy refusing to sit still for a makeover, something rectangular in shiny metallic wrapping on the top shelf of the fridge she could not quite reach, I was certain of what that tone in her voice meant.
I felt my face already softening into an expression of maternal tenderness.
One day she will stop asking for help.
One day, I’ll miss this.
I will miss these days and think back to this moment. This special mother-daughter moment.
I looked up.
She looked to be approximately my daughter’s height.
I blinked.
The same familiar little face. The same earnest expression. The same wide-eyed confidence that Mummy could most certainly fix anything.
I blinked again.
From her hairline to her forehead. Across her cheeks. Down to her hands.
Blue.
Not a faint smudge.
Blue.
Not a dab of creative experimentation.
Blue
Like a choppy, messy, angry ocean.
I-don’t-think-I-have-the-right-cleaning-product-for-this
BLUE FOOD COLOURING!
An entire village of Smurfs from 90s morning television had made it to 2026 only to meet an unfortunate end.
The floors, the kitchen cabinets, puppy paws, the bathroom tiles, bath sheets, and now the soles of my feet, ankles, hands. In an instant, I had become her Mr Kaplan hired to clean up after a crime scene on the Blacklist.
She lacked the guilty conscience of Lady Macbeth’s “Out damn spot” midnight sleepwalking.
Far from the mother-daughter Kodak / Insta-highlight-reel moment, it went like this:
GET INTO THE SHOWER
And then…
Mummy, I HAVE to touch something. Ho—-w do you expect me to get into the shower, silly!
It’s a good thing I named her Emmanuelle
God with me.
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