My youngest child wants jelly.
“You will make it for me Mummy? You will make it?”
She waves the box around in front of my face, as I attempt to run stocktake on essential oils.
“I can’t make it right now Eve. And anyway, even if I make it now, it will still have to go into the fridge to get cold.”
“Does the jelly needa get cold Mummy?”
I nod, distracted.
“Yes, sweetheart. I mix it with water, and then it goes away to get cold and set.”
She looks at me, smiles, and walks away. I hear the fridge open and shut, as I run my eyes over my remaining stock lists.
Five minutes later, Eve stands in front of me again, brandishing her box of jelly.
“Mummy! The jelly is cold now! Can I eat it please?”
Three year olds are chaos walking. Everything happens at high speed, high intensity. They feel things so deeply that it can be heartbreaking to watch them bounce around their day, like the silver balls inside a pinball table.
They’re the happiest they’ve ever been, right up until their heart breaks and everything is ruined forever. A broken banana is the end of the world. A stolen sock; a tragedy.
Three year olds are also hilarious. It’s why we don’t eat them.
“But MUMMY, the jelly is cold! You said we could eat it when it got cold!”