‘Don’t let her lick that – it might have pee on it’!
These are the words that assailed me as I wandered across a local park this morning. The item in question was a bright orange plastic cone. The person in question was my daughter Annabelle.
A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that my toddler had assumed the position. Slight crouch, arms outstretched, neck angled forward, tongue extended. Never mind the fact that her face was already covered in dirt (her snack of choice).
Cue the quiet but furious utterance of a word I can’t repeat here. Then I sprint. I am not a natural sprinter. When it comes to physical finesse and fitness, I am from the shallow end of the gene pool. Therefore my running style is highly entertaining, or so I’m told. Picture a red faced woman, wild of hair, glasses askew, balancing her morning cup of tolerance (coffee), moving across the grass with about as much grace as an elephant on ice.
Once I had extracted my daughter from the potentially pee covered plastic cone, I attempted to recover my dignity. I delicately dabbed at the coffee now spattered across my chest whilst discreetly hitching up my pants (Annabelle is always pulling them down when she’s cross; it’s horrifying).