Last month, on a lazy Sunday morning much like this one, I somewhat rashly asserted that:
I can supervise from the safety of the dining table, sun at my back, with the Sunday paper and a latté.
So this morning I was at it again, having this time put the Wiggles Hoop-Dee-Doo: It’s a Wiggly Party on at volume in the next room while I had my coffee and read the paper.
About halfway through the CD R. arrived from her repose.
“The girls are having a lot of fun outside, aren’t they?”, she said.
Sure enough, while my attention was elsewhere they’d opened a window onto the deck, gone down the steps on to the lawn, and were busy squirting each other with the garden hose. Before going on to play on the swing (and R₂ missing a big, er, appointment) in cold and wet clothes.
Like the very modern parents we are, we were mainly concerned with the lack of sunscreen used before escaping, rather than the fact of their escape. After all, that’s what kids do, right?
But it was definitely another triumph for my supervisory powers. I wouldn’t hire me as a babysitter, that’s for sure.