Dinner time is when I feel most slavish.
I cook. Clear the table. Lay out the plates and spoons. Dish out the food. Eat in a hurry because Dee is always hovering nearby trying to get at my food. Force feed Day.
Rush to the kitchen with all the dirty dishes. Pile them in the sink. Cut the fruits. Serve the fruits.
While everyone is eating bag the rubbish and bring it out to the rubbish bins.
Rush back in to wash the dishes.
And then, if there are fruits left, I get the remainders.
Last night I just could not be bothered.
For dessert, I let loose a bag of Smith’s crinkled potato chips, and while father and kids descended on the chips I turned to my washing.
And in what must be the most heart-drippingly sweet moment I have felt all year, I heard Dee toddling into the kitchen, calling “papa!” (she still calls me papa), big smile on her mucus-stained face, fistful of chips held up high for me to sample.
She made countless trips to the kitchen bearing chips for me, all of which I’d eat by leaning down and biting them straight out of her hand.
It’s very out of character for her, but like I told her papa, there may be something to what they say about how girls don’t forget their parents.
Day? Upon hearing my cries of pleasure, and probably wanting to equal his sister, he came once with one chip. But soon forgot all about me as chip frenzy took over.
KK? He didn’t come at all!