So, it’s a Saturday morning, and everybody has just got up. Not through choice, but Sophie dictates the time and she decided that it was time to get up.
You venture downstairs, still bleary eyed, because 6.30am is too early for anybody, and you open the patio door curtains. Then you look down.
What is that? Leaf mulch? Misplaced chocolate? No. You pray it is simply a mound of cat ‘leavings’.
Again. No. One of the cats has brought home a special present for us, their proud parents. It could be worse. I mean, it’s nearly all there.
You make the decision that it’s time to close the curtains once again, before the little person disc……. Oh.
‘Daddy, what’s that?’
‘Is it poo? Is it cat poo?’
‘Yes dear, that’s it. Well done. Now go away’.
You usher them out of the way, close the curtains and wait until you are dressed appropriately for removing the deceased.
Now, my question is, when to start being honest? When is the time where you turn around and go, ‘no princess, it’s the dismembered limbs of a tiny little creature that one of the cats has decided to rip apart, and leave on our patio to show off’?
You may think that this is a ridiculous thing to say. But no, you’re wrong.
The other day, a situation arose where it would’ve been nigh on impossible to talk a way out of. For it was decided, that on this day, Bobby the cat would catch and bring home the biggest rat I have ever seen. Measuring, probably, over two foot in length from nose to tail.
How the hell do you say that that is poo? Answer me that. And no, I don’t live in an area where the yeti or huge grizzly bears are plentiful.
I’m dreading the day where more adult topics arise such as birds, bees and bras. ‘Go and see your mother’ being the logical answer to all those three.
Oh well it’s just another day in the journey that is parenting, where I don’t really know what to do.