MINE. MINE. MINE.

I've got a confession to make. Yes, another one. I've been hiding in the pantry eating meringues. Nervously keeping an eye out for my children, and if one appears, swallowing quickly, dusting crumbs and pretending to be hunting for a can of apricots. "Now I knew I had one in here somewhere."

You see this is another of those things about motherhood that they don't tell you. Your ability to sit down and eat something, anything, in peace is gone. Possibly forever. Even carrot and celery sticks.

Highly tuned ears can hear the fridge door even over a screaming match about who cuddles teddy. Little beady eyes zoom in on food within milliseconds of it being unwrapped from cling wrap, or slid sneakily out of a paper bag. Then the pestering begins. Fine, you give them some too, but they gobble it, nothing is savored. So before you've even finished your second mouthful the little starlings are back for more, and more and... well you get the picture.

But not today.

Oh no.

I, with my dignity, was hiding in the pantry. They'd already eaten a gingerbread man each (the big ones with THREE Smarties for buttons), and I was damned if they were going to scoff my meringue as well. Especially as I hadn't got to eat it with my cup of (now cold) tea because they'd had an insatiable desire for vegemite toast which then got fed to the dog. Who, incidentally, got shouted at and sent outside. Poor Ella! Though she did get a schmakos and a cuddle to make up for it!

I love parenthood.