You like to think, as a parent, that your children will grow up with compassion and care, modeling those same qualities that you have shown them since the day that they were born.
However, I am beginning to assume that either my daughters are mildly sadistic, or they are modeling some hitherto unrealised evil parenting on my part.
I lay there, bleeding in the mud, hoping that my offspring would’ve heard my cries
Last week, I was pottering about in the garden, tidying and watering the allotment patch.
The latter is the pride and joy of my husband, as the girls and I purchased him a Rocket Garden voucher for Father’s Day.
This is a fabulous company who deliver a ready-grown garden of fruit and veg to your door. All you need to do is plant it and literally reap the benefits.
Due to our assorted pets, the allotment patch is currently fenced in, because Ethel the pug rather disgraced herself by consuming the first strawberry to blossom.
I had carefully ensured that all was watered and pug-free, when I spotted said pug prancing about in front of the fence, waiting for me to come out.
Subsequently, in an effort not to squash the little creature, I rather missed my footing, tripped over the tiny fence, and landed fully in the swamp created by the hose, smothered in mud and grit.
Such was my shock at taking my first proper tumble since approximately the age of 10, that it took me a couple of minutes to even realise what had happened, and to fathom why I was now looking a previously unspotted chipolata of dog poo in the eye.
For the record I can now confirm that falling over when you weigh in the region of 131lbs, is not quite the same as falling over when you’re three foot high and weigh the same as a feather.
I lay there, bleeding in the mud, leg already swelling around a bruise, assuming that my offspring would’ve heard my cries for assistance and come running – especially given that they demand a full body cast if a pavement so much as looks at them the wrong way.
Instead, after they finally arrived and I had shambled to the back door, India gave a cursory inspection of my wounds, twitched an eyebrow and returned to her post in front of CBBC, and Amelie enquired as to whether or not she might have another custard cream.
I’m thinking we can safely wipe ‘medical profession’ off the list for future career possibilities.
Verity Lush is a 38-year-old mum-of-two who lives in Portsmouth.
She is a tutor in philosophy, English and maths and has written a book for newly-qualified teachers, plus textbooks and articles for teaching magazines and supplements. Follow her on Twitter @lushnessblog