How much deep water could your child get into in Central America? Photo / File
Those of you with children of a certain age will know what I mean.
They've returned from uni or the out-of-town job. Home for the weekend. Just long enough to empty the fridge, borrow your good shoes to go clubbing in and get you out of bed at 3am to pick them up because the queue for the taxi stretches halfway up Arawa St.
Luckily, though, you know you'll have them where you want them when it comes to the Sunday roast.
They won't turn that down.
That's partly because they spent all their dough last night and can't afford to go out again and partly because they know the only thing they've got in the fridge where they live is a six pack of beers and some leftover pizza from the previous Thursday night.
Anyway.
You enjoy this rekindling of the old family warmth around the dinner table and just when you are beginning to relax, allowing a "those were the days" thought to make the short journey from your brain to your increasing smile, they drop the bombshell.
Now this can basically be anything from "my girlfriend's pregnant" for the boys to "I've got a job as an exotic dancer" for the girls. Either way, whatever it is you are guaranteed to be left choking on your brussels sprouts and minted peas.
I should point out here, before friends of our four cherubs bombard them with Facebook inquiries, that none of our kids has uttered those particular phrases above to Mrs P or myself.
We have had our moments, though. Take last weekend.
No1 Son was home for some R and R and excitedly relayed details of an upcoming trip to Central America as we enjoyed a sumptuous roast.
I must admit I stifled a groan when the news was first mentioned but (and you guys can relate to this, I'm sure) I was soon in position to run interference in front of Mother Bear and ready to calm the waters of the Increasingly Worried Mother Ocean.
"Isn't it quite dangerous there?" said Mrs P as No1 Son rattled off various countries he would be visiting as if they were items on a shopping list.
Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Colombia ...
"Colombia! That's where all the drug lords are from. They have a murder there every five minutes," said Mrs P as I tried to kick No1 Son under the table but got George The Dog instead.
"Not the part we're going to," said No1 Son, digging into the roast spuds. "It's Cartagena. Really nice".
This was my chance to pour oil on the choppy waters. "At least you won't get stabbed there," I said, trying to be helpful.
Bugger. Wrong thing to say.
Let me quickly explain. Last time No1 Son went overseas he got stabbed in Argentina (and by all accounts put his boxing training to good use and gave his assailants as good as he got, without the blade of course). Unfortunately (or fortunately whichever way you look at it) Mrs P only found out about it on his return, when she hugged him and he winced.
Anyway. I knew I'd goofed straight away. So did Mrs P. Luckily, so did No1 Son.
"I'm also going to the Bahamas," he said, changing the subject. 'It's a beautiful, safe, calm place. I'll show you a video of where I'm going." This seemed to reassure Mrs P a bit.
The Bahamas? We couldn't recall anything nasty or dangerous going on there. This was good news. No1 Son would be safe. Mrs P would not worry (as much).
So within a couple of minutes we were enjoying views of pristine beaches, palm trees, sun, sand and beautiful people. It looked breathtaking and after a while we were able to relax.
"And what's this about?" Mrs P asked as the video changed to a dramatic scene of the rescue of a clearly distressed exponent of the very dangerous sport of "free diving" - where participants dive deep underwater on one breath for five minutes or more.
"That guy's the world champion," said No1 Son. "I'm going to do a course with him when I go to the Bahamas. I can hold my breath for four minutes already".
Groan. Sometimes you wish they'd just keep eating and stop talking.