I went to bed last night, and I was the one in charge.
Somehow, overnight, that changed.
Grolly decided to keep an eye on Little Fish's manners.
She chose food for lunch
And put the shopping away.
She was going to hoover, but had difficulty with the hose.
Makes a change from lining up cuddly toys I suppose.
Little Fish took over too. It's never a good sign when, as you walk through the door, a little voice says "Mummy, don't be cross." I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she was trying to feed the fish when she shook our entire stock of fish food over the kitchen floor, adding a fine layer of grit to the already copious grime.
But then, when exhaustion hit again, and my lie down on the settee moment combined with her sudden urgent need for lunch, she definitely took control. "Come on, Mummy, sit up now. Stand up now. Come on, darling, nearly there, come on darling, into the kitchen now please Mummy", and she coaxed me the length of the corridor and then talked me through the specifics of supplying ham and bread and chocolate spread.
Mog has been supervisor in all this. I do chest physio on her; it makes me cough, which makes her laugh, which makes her cough. Everyone's a winner. She sits, most superior, in her wheelchair, and watches the mayhem unfurl. Very quiet, content but not overenthusiastic about anything. Until bedtime happens, at which point she screams for England. Which has the handy side effect of bringing up a small mountain of phlegm.
I'll spare you the photo.