My dad, when he really wants to turn our stomachs, refers to me and my brother as "The Product of his Loins". I still find myself unable to listen to those words without pulling a face that I usually reserve for the inspection of objects Finje pulls out of her nose. My brother, at the age of 43, still manages to curl his 6 foot 4 inch body into a ball of disgust, roll on the floor, block his ears and sing "la la la I'm not listening".
Be that as it may, like it or not, we are indeed the product of our parent's loins. This of course despite the fact that generally we all would like to believe that our parents only joined flanks the required number of times it took to produce us and our siblings. My husband and I have, thankfully only once, been caught bumping wookies on one occasion (see: Coitus Interruptus German style) and I'm pretty sure we got away with it without any inappropriate loin visuals. No doubt we'll find out in years to come when we are produced with the psychiatrist's bill.
Personally, I see not a jot of resemblance between my daughter and me or indeed my husband. Frankly if the everlasting torment of the-pregnancy-from-hell wasn't etched for infinity on the inside of my skull, I could have been, until yesterday, persuaded that she dropped in on us during a stork fly-by mission.The scene was set at the breakfast table. Nothing untoward. Cornflakes, two bowls, cocoa for Finje (it's a German thing), large container of Typhoo for me. The conversation that followed went something like this:
Me: What do you want on your sandwiches for break time?
Me: I'm sorry I didn't quite catch that. Ham or cheese ?
Fin: Mmm Grumph
Me: Right then spinach and green bean sandwiches it is then.
Fin: Mmm what? Grumph. Okay. What?
Me: Finje It's really very rude not to answer me. Now will you LISTEN?
Finje: Mmm what, I mean pardon. Sorry Mama I can't think in a straight line in the mornings until I've had at least one cup of cocoa.
Now where the heck did she get that from?
*Drops head and shuffles*
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