Yesterday morning, Grace was insistent that we make pancakes. But I was keen to be out and about, looking at houses so I promised her that we'd do it on Sunday morning. So this morning, I go to get her up and she says; porridge, mummy, porridge and sultanas. I explained to her that tommorow I have to go to work, so that if she wants pancakes, today is good. Pancakes it is then. She refuses to wear her dressing gown and demands the red coat, with the hood. And pink shoes, no socks, no, no, no, no socks. I think they're on the verge of being too tight and she has other shoes, but it's always the pink shoes.
Anyway, pancakes are a hit. She knows the drill, tells me what to do next and even believes me when I say that the yucky banana that she wants to put in the po-po (compost) will be nice in little pancakes.
She helps me cook them (under close supervision) and we talk about how the stove is hot, and what happens if you touch the stove, ow, ow ow. She likes to watch the little bubbles form and talks about the sound the butter makes, sss. I turn a blind eye when she eats them from the plate in progress. Breakfast is breakfast, whether you eat it hot from the stove or sitting at the table. Today, before sitting down to eat, we take orange juice to daddy in bed and go up to the servo with new dolly in the pram to get the paper. On the way home we go down bumpy lane. By the time I put the coffee on, she's really had enough. Forsaking me for chloe (her name for tinky-winky), eh oh. How I love the teletubbies, really I do. Leaving mummy to read the auction results from yesterday, drink her coffee and eat her sunday breakfast in peace. As I annotate the pictures of houses in the local newspaper, for my file, lots of thoughts about houses and the whole process flit through my brain.
I could go on and on, but I should go to bed. Work tommorrow. Cold is pretty much gone and I'm ready to be back in the world.