It’s dark time. Midnight. There’s a light on in the kitchen that falls on my face and wakes me. I hear the click of the cupboard and rummaging, then footsteps going down the Hall and the sound of a door closing.
Six and a half hours later (funny, because on a weekday that would be the time we would wake the household up with great effort and much groaning and muttered
curse words) there it is again, only louder this time, with more banging. Because it’s daylight (almost) and it’s acceptable to be in the kitchen hunting and gathering food. It reminds me of something – tugs at the back of my brain…those cute fluffy things you weren’t supposed to feed after midnight? No. Nothing cute and fluffy out there.
An hour later (I blissfully dozed off – my favorite thing to do on a Saturday morning) there it is again, with no pretence whatsoever of being cautious or quiet. And there’s a whimper, in a croaky half-man whisper.
“Feed me, Mumma!”
And I realise what it is that I’ve got….my very own Audrey.
And once I venture into the kitchen….my very own little shop of horrors. Again.
He is happy for the moment, crunching through a paperbag of last night’s mostly untouched prawn crackers and lucky we have our own chooks to lay eggs, quite frankly…the shells slow him down somewhat. I wish he’d crunch more quietly though; crunching sounds will wake our other offspring in a way that my voice raised to near shrieking won’t on a weekday. And then there’ll be two more prowling in the kitchen, hoovering. It reminds me of share houses from my past, the way I hide tasty tidbits in my bedside drawer.
And you just know that despite the constant chewing, the kid looks like a scarecrow, don’t you?