Spoons

The temperature has dropped. There are reports of snow up on the moors. I have a little scrap of thin plastic attached to my NHS issue raincoat which is supposedly a hood. It doesn’t do much to protect me from the icy rain showers as I dash between patient visits. 

Back at home Wren gives me a stern look when I pass her a dessertspoon to eat her yoghurt with.

“I want a little spoon,” she frowns.

I pick up a teaspoon but she shakes her head vehemently.

“That’s not a little spoon, that’s a small spoon. I want a little spoon.” 

I stare at her, mystified. If a teaspoon isn’t a little spoon, then what is? Wren repeats herself, speaking very slowly, as if I were the three year old.

As luck would have it, Little Owl flounces in to the kitchen at just this moment.

“Little Owl, apparently this is a small spoon, and Wren wants a little spoon,” I say, waving the teaspoon at her.

Little Owl rolls her eyes, and heads for the cutlery drawer.

This is a little spoon.” She flourishes a plastic baby spoon at me and flounces off again.

Wren nods with satisfaction. 

Who knew? It must be tough having me as a mum.

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