With Betty naked, but for a nappy, and me skulking about the kitchen in only my undies, we set about the painting session we've been planning for the last ten months.
Why are we half starkers?
Why has it taken me ten months to get round to this?
Have I adopted some sort of naturist abstract art indoctrination to inflict upon our daughter?
And why do I keep asking rhetorical questions?
We are nearly naked because I am painting with a TEN MONTH OLD. And although the majority of my togs have been pumped out by Primark and 'Whoops' by Tesco, I am nevertheless adverse to The Poop smearing her fingers about them.
Secondly it's taken me ten months to get round to painting with my creatively starved daughter because I am a bad mother who wants her child to show interest in only low admin pursuits such as telly watching or becoming clinically obese, and exposing her to such imaginative outlets as art, literature, music and dance could very well generate a hugely irritating noose for my otherwise perfectly unhassled neck. Before you know it I'll be running other people's kids to dance classes and be expected to go halvers on a pony with (insert-silly-fashionable-baby-name)'s Mum.
And I keep asking rhetorical questions because it's Saturday night, I can't be bothered blogging, and an inane question or seven is always good for padding out an otherwise skeletal post.
See. It's still keeping me going now.
So, we stripped off, dug out the paint and paper and made a right mess.
|"Mum...Mum...Mum! Stop taking photos - your boobs have|
That means I'm one of those nerdy, interested Mum's then doesn't it?