“There’s something not true, Dad.”
Chick’s eyes were studying the rat trap I was gingerly laying on the ground trying to avoid my fingers being angrily snapped at.
“What’s that, Chickles?” I watched him, his belly sticking out, staring at the trap.
‘Well, rats love cheese, not peanut butter.” he was most concerned that the offending rat would not be caught.
“Dunno, Chick. I think they like peanut butter on their toast in the morning. Mummy just needs to make them a cup of tea,” I said, much to my miniest man’s delight.
Beau was carefully re-creating the event of me first spotting the rat the night before when he and I were watching an arty French film, by throwing his hands in the air and pretending to scream.
He can get the gist of French films, but not his school work — I’m still trying to figure that out.
Days later, the rat was caught.
Shopping with the men, we turned into the cleaning aisle and I picked up a can of insect spray.
“Get that, Dad, your house is the cockroach house and ours is the rat house,” Chick said proudly as if he’d just taken off his white lab coat and lowered his spectacles to tell me his new discovery.
“Geez, guys, not so loud. Okay, so who wants ice cream?” I threw the can into the trolley and drove it sideways around to the frozen aisle.
We visited Wildlife World and arrived at the wallabies’ enclosure after being mostly enthralled by the insects and snakes.
“Dad! Did you see that wobbly?” Chick pointed excitedly.
I roared laughing. “Oh dear, little man, you say ‘wal-a-bee’.”
“Wobbly,” he repeated, eyebrows slightly knitted.
“Andiamo a pranzo, eh bambinos?” I asked them as I usually do. “Si Papa, prego,” they responded.
I stood in the line for lunch, shaking my head in my mind.
They can watch French films and speak Italian, but their English is still wallaby and yet adorable and a source of limitless laughs.
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