WE’VE had two trial runs, where Youngest has told me to “bug off” and I’ve misheard and gone mental, only for the BoyF to later point out, mildly, what she had actually said. Oh well, she deserved everything she got.
This time, however, there’s no mistaking the profanity when she’s told to pick up a bowl studded with dried Cheerio limpets, remove the wet towel from her bed and return MY laptop.
“*@%! Off,” she says.
The red mist is immediate. She’s grounded! No hockey, highland, tennis this week! I pocket her phone, my laptop, the TV remote, bag up her new ceilidh dress ready for return, and direct her to her room from which she will emerge only to deliver an apology!
But she has my temper and she’s not having it.
“The boys say it all the time.”
“They most certainly do not!”
“Do!”
Debate and you’ve lost, so I ignore her.
“Why do you treat them differently?” Prod.
“Why?” Prod.
“Why?” Prod.
The prodding is intensifying. Pity a good smack is no longer PC. I’m the adult here, what should I do?
I lock myself in the bathroom, ha, ha, ha, ha, with my fags and phone, snigger.
That’s when the door-thudding starts. She hasn’t even seen The Shining. How long will it hold?
Long enough for a puff while she exhausts herself. Supernanny eat your cape.