We were sitting at the dining room table having breakfast and it wasn’t just the toast that was hot. My wife and I were having a row.
“That’s a disgraceful thing to say!” I bellowed.
“That’s completely out of order!” she retorted
Now, I can’t remember what Clare had said to start the row (and by the way she’s always the one who starts our rows), whether it was right or wrong, or even what the row was about. What I do remember is what my children did next.
Meri, my four year old daughter who was sitting opposite me at the table narrowed her eyes.
“Mummy!” she said sternly. “No shouting or screaming!”
Arun, my six year old son piped up, “Yes Mummy! No shouting! You say sorry!” He had a little smile on his face. He was having fun turning the tables.
Clare and I looked at each other sheepishly. We had been called out and found wanting. Little smirks broke out on our faces too.
“You say sorry,” demanded Meri.
Clare got that stubborn look in her eye. “Shan’t” I could almost hear her thinking.
I muttered at her,”Clare….set an example…”
Now it was her turn to narrow her eyes and furrow her brow at me, “Sorry.”
“Good girl,” said Meri.
“Daddy! You say sorry too,” Arun turned on me.
I smirked a little more, “What happens if I don’t?”
Arun wagged his finger at me, “You say sorry Daddy or you will go in the naughty corner in your room.” He was laying down the law.
“So, if I don’t say sorry I get to go to my room? I’m 43 years old. Does that mean I get to go to my room and have to stay there on my own for 43 minutes? Sounds like quite a good deal to me.”
The kids looked a little confused. Clare didn’t. She was making like Queen Victoria: definitely not amused.
“Mrunal…” There was a definite threat in her voice.
“Sorry,” I said.
The views expressed in this blog are solely those of the blogger and do not necessarily represent the views of Dad.info.
The views expressed in this blog are solely those of the blogger and do not necessarily represent the views of Dad.info.
