Don’t stand on the parsnips please

Another phrase I never thought to hear, let alone say.  G has entered that adorable phase of disgorging cupboard contents across the kitchen floor.  No amount of pots and wooden spoons will distract her and I can’t for the life of me remember where I put the safety catches bought but never used for the less curious B.  The unemployed Scot in me won’t allow the purchase of new ones knowing there’s a set lurking somewhere in the midden of our home.  The same applies to the missing Maclaren buggy rain cover, which is beginning to prove problematic given the inclemency of the weather.  So anyway, G forages with gay abandon among the Domestos and mould spray and was today caught nanoseconds from dragging my Pampered Chef baker off its shelf [the Pampered Chef party was a departure from customary meanness, fuelled largely by red wine; purchases also included an apple corer (invaluable) and a self-heating ice cream scoop (ludicrous)].  I don’t think I could have handled the sense of bereavement had the stoneware been damaged  again (I managed to explode the first one) especially as my parents just visited and washed the magic ice cream scoop twice in the dishwasher, despite strict warnings about the need to hand-wash.  At £13 it won’t be replaced.  But to be honest, I can only agree with what you’re thinking; anyone spending that kind of money on an ice cream scoop deserves everything they get.  Anyway, once manoeuvred away from the breakables G started on the vegetables and hence today’s – surely – unique post title.  As soon as I’m finished here I’ll be emptying a few cupboards myself in search of those bloody catches.

B and I enjoyed ‘The Cow that Laid an Egg‘ tonight, which prompted a discussion on adoption. Unsure if it was a dangerous topic to broach with a young child, lest he spend the next year or so panicking that he might be ‘put up’ for it himself, I was relieved that he didn’t seem at all phased.  I then took him through to bed and as he was being tucked in he began wriggling and grinning in that endearing manner children adopt (pardon the pun) when overexcited.  Before I could tell him to settle down he said, “Mummy, I feel very special.”
“Why’s that?” I asked him.
“Because I get yous two.  You and daddy.  So I feel special.”
Let the bad grammar slide on this occasion.