252. Dinner time

'Mum?'

'Yes?'

'How many spaghetti per person?'

'How much. And about 100 grammes.'

My husband has just come in and he is livid. His daughter (Miss Organiser is back on top form and has earned her old nickname back) has asked him to go to her flat to sit in and wait for a delivery. 

'I cannot believe it! I cannot believe she asked me that! Am I supposed to take time off work to sit in her flat for a delivery? Can you believe this?'

He keeps repeating this over and over again. There's nothing I can say to make it less dreadful. I mean it is dreadful. I could tell him I think it is because we missed a couple a chapters in the How to raise your children to become responsible adults. Or I could just pour him a beer.

'Three ... four ... five ... six ... How many did you say?'

'Mum? How many spaghetti?'

'HOW MUCH!'

'Can you believe it? I cannot believe it. I cannot believe she even thought about it. Unbelievable. Unbelievable.'

'Twenty-three ... twenty-four ... twenty-five ...'

'Are you hungry?' 

'I cannot believe this! I simply cannot.'

'Add an extra 100.'

'How long's dinner?'

'Fifty-five ... fifty-six ...'

My phone is flashing. It is sitting on the bar, right between me and my husband and Miss Organiser's face is smiling broadly on the screen. I quickly grab the phone and at the same time open the fridge door and pull out a beer. I take a glass from the dishwasher and pour the beer and pass it towards my husband as some kind of life-saving medicine. He takes it to the lounge. I can hear him moaning to the dog.  

'Now's not really a good time to speak.'

But Miss Organiser is all about organising her new flat and she needs her dad to plug in the washing machine. I have to tell her that she's not the favourite right now and could that wait? Anyway by now the kitchen has turned into a kind of sauna as the water for the pasta has been boiling over for a while without Baby noticing. 

'Can you hurry and put the pasta in?'

'Ninety-eight ... ninety-nine ...'

What on earth is Baby doing? The determined voice of Miss Organiser in my ears, the muttering of numbers by Baby in the background, the steam in the kitchen, the faint discussion between the dog and my husband in the lounge, the hunger which I am now beginning to feel, all this is getting too much for me. I end the call, I ask my husband to pour me a glass of wine, and I turn to Baby:

'Can you please put the pasta in? AND WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU COUNTING?'

'I'm counting the spaghetti.'

'WHAT?'

'I'm counting the spaghetti. You didn't tell me how many there are in 100 grammes ...'

'Don't tell me you are counting the spaghetti?'

'I am. It is to be accurate. Every one is getting the same number of spaghetti.'

'I cannot believe this.' As I am saying this I realise I am sounding just like my husband. I tell Baby to forget about the counting or the weighing and to put the whole packet in, to do the carbonara and to call us when it is ready. She is laughing out loud as she puts some pasta in the water but still keeps counting and as she counts she weighs the pasta to wok out how many there are in a 100 grammes. Our kids are crazy. We've done something wrong. We retire to the lounge with our drink. My husband is right. The dog seems to be the most sensible being in this household right now.