'Can I help you with the washing, Mum?' the Bombshell asked me this morning.
I looked at her, trying to memorise this moment, knowing with 100% certainly that in a few years conversations like this won't take place (unless it is quickly followed with a demand for money).
'Of course, sweetie,' I told her.
I dumped onto the floor a huge pile of underwear, singlet tops and skirts all rolled into a dress. I feel like a tramp when I head downstairs, all my worldly possessions rolled into a bundle that is flung across my shoulder. If tramps used flowered blue swags, that is.
As I zipped my bras into a lingerie bag, the Bombshell grabbed handfuls of my undies and shoved them into the washing machine.
She stopped and held up a pair of knickers. When pregnant with Baldy I started favouring a more generous cut of underwear, and I just never bothered going back. It looked as though she had unrolled a doona cover.
'Your bottom is a size [insert suitably curvy size here]' she announced at the top of her lungs.
'Shhhhh,' I hissed at her. My husband has chosen this exact moment to walk past the laundry.
'Why Mum?' she asked, puzzled.
'A real woman never reveals her size,' I told her. 'It's just not an important part of being a woman,' I finished lamely. Anyone with a passing glance at my rear end would know that I am no size 6.
She shrugged and pulled out a crop top which I had started wearing under my nightee when breastfeeding babies, and (again) just never bothered to stop wearing.
'What's this? Is this a bra? It should go in the bra bag,' she said trying to pull it out of the machine, causing an avalanche of ginormous knickers to come cascading out.
'That's not a bra, it's a crop top. There's no hooks,' I explained.
Huffing, she stood up and walked off, leaving my underwear all over the laundry floor.
'Whatever,' she said. 'I'm too young to understand these things.'