Normality.

"So, how's normality after your holiday?" asked my friend earlier this evening.

My response was somewhat delayed, busy as I was frying waffles for fifty girls and their leaders, and arbitrating the great maple syrup debate. And as I reflected on the possibly that frying waffles for fifty was not the most normal of occupations, I considered the rest of the day.

The small child sitting next to me as I was on the telephone, singing very loudly "Bob the Builder, HE CAN'T FIX IT!"

The cat who has decided the front door is scary and now prefers to come and go through the sitting room window.

The small child sending texts to an imaginary (I hope) hippopotamus, inviting said hippo to go out for ice cream in Grannie's new yellow car.

The other two cats, belting up and down the hallway, chasing the wrapper from a bisacodyl suppository.

The online grocery shop, which included 29 items, 27 of which were cat-related.

The small child deciding "You are the baby and I am the Daddy. Right, WAKE UP BABY!" before beetling off to find her baby doll, who is now officially the Mummy. And the child stripping said doll, and attempting to persuade the small cat to wear a pink cardigan. And the cat not cooperating but not removing child's arm or running away either.

The larger child still adamant that Norah Jones is the only acceptable music to listen to, but conceding Matt Redman as a barely viable alternative. And the younger child now singing "Blessed be the name of That Door."

And then looking around the church hall, as those Guides who were not currently eating waffles or attempting to fill every little dimple in their little waffly heart with the perfect mixture of chocolate spread, sugar and lemon, chased each other up and down with chopsticks for the great noodle relay.

And I realised once again that our normal is not like other normals, and I didn't have any idea how to answer my friend's casual question. She probably regrets asking it now!

Tia