One of the benefits of having kids, when they get mobile and old enough to follow directions, is have them fetch stuff for you. As in, sitting in the armchair, reading the bible (as in the Bible of The Bush, The Queensland Country Life, not the THE bible!) and realising that one's delicate tootsies are cold.
Send the boy to fetch my slippers from the bathroom. He does so, clomping back with them on his own feet, and then proceeds to then shove them onto my feet in a most obliging manner (he is getting most well trained, the wee lad!) He steps back, looking most pleased as he surveys his handiwork.
"There you go, Your Majesty!" and with a twinkle, he departs to build an engineering monstrosity from his lego.
Tis a true pity The Husband (aka The Grumpy One from time to time) has not caught on to this new title. I do rather feel that the whole family should be addressing me as such.
Oh well, I'll console myself with the fact that the boy has realised and has respect for my true status.
As I wipe his bum. Again.
Sigh.
I think the truth in the matter is that I am rearing a ratbag. It's a good thing he is the last one!
Oh, he's smart little boy for sure!
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