I am Standing at the Butcher Counter Mum

At the butcher counter…
Mini-Me is staring at all of the meat and fish.
(Recently, we’re OBSESSED with the words “Dead” (dayad) and “killed” (kulled).
So while Mr Butcher bags up the chicken which she’s informed him she won’t eat EVEN if Mammy cooks it because “dayad chucken is rotten”, Mammy is relieved that she’s taken a breath for 2 whole seconds so that Mammy can actually get a word in edgeways to order more meat.
She suddenly pipes up:

“Mammy, does the farmer cut the cow to… get the baby calf out?”
(What I THOUGHT she was going to ask was “to get the meat out”.  So did the butcher. πŸ˜…πŸ˜…)
“Erm, well yes Mini-Me. If the cow can’t get the baby calf out, the vet will cut the cow’s belly open to get the calf out. It’s called a C-Section.” 

(Atta girl S-Mum. Answer with truth. Always the best option apparently, no?)
Butcher looks impressed that not-very-farmeresque-today-glammy-mammy-type in front of him has answered so brilliantly and not at all awkwardly…

(You got this S-Mum.  You rock…)
“Aaaaaaaaaah.” Ponders.
“And a half pound of…”
“So just like the vet cut YOUR belly open to get me out?”
(Aaaaaaaaaaand there we go.)

Butcher almost chokes.
“And  then AGAIN to get Princess out? Mammy DID THE VET CUT YOUR BELLY TOO?”

(Obviously misunderstands from my inability to speak due to utter mortification that I didn’t hear her the first time.😣😣😣)
“Yes Sweetie. Now shush a second please until Mammy gets…”  ( the feck out of here.) 😣😣😣
“So does dat mean YOU’RE A COW?!”
Christ on a bike… ground.  Open. Swallow…
Butcher is in convulsions by now. 

Fecker. 
“She’ll go far that Doll” he smiles encouragingly.

“Oh indeed she will” answers a Not-quite-so-smug S-Mum through false smile, manic laugh and gritted teeth. (Right out the door on the toe express if I could get away with it…)
Oh God, I could’ve kulled her, the little butch… πŸ˜‰πŸ˜…πŸ˜‰πŸ˜…πŸ˜‰πŸ˜…πŸ˜‰
How was your day?

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