It’s the end of their stint with me for the school holidays. Having pulled my back yesterday (on my birthday!), we had what was primarily a down day.
Late afternoon I felt sorry for my caged cubs. We jumped in the car and went to our favourite park.
Parenting trick; take them out near their supper time. They’ll then naturally leave the park in search of their next meal.
I had a plan for supper but was pressed for time. At the stove, they glossed over the fact that my usual ‘come and get it’ was replaced with ‘well, that’ll have to do’.
She finishes eating first, and leans into my personal space to tell me something.
“Daddy; there’s this story in the bible, about a stranger who knocks on a man’s door…”
Quite familiar with the bible, I’m at a loss for this particular story.
She chimes on.
“A man opens the door and the stranger asked ‘do you have a space for me to sleep?’ but the man said no”
Definitely not familiar with this story.
“The stranger then says ‘but I can help you! I can cook you a wonderful meal!'”
I’m wondering if this a Samaritans remix or some stranger danger thing that has become clouded in her brain.
She continues and I continue to fork food into my face.
“So the man let’s the stranger in and he starts cooking a soup. But the stranger hadn’t brought any ingredients so instead, he popped in a magic toenail…”
At this precise moment, something in my mouth went crunch.
“and then he popped to the neighbours to get some broccoli…”
I’m not listening any more.
The final element of confusion flooded in and brought me back to reality when she tailed off with,
“I think it might be Jewish”
She angles her head in thought.
I fear my appetite may never return.