We Have Sixteen Spoons. Apparently Only One Is Acceptable.

At some point, without my knowledge or consent, our kitchen cutlery drawer became a members-only club, and apparently I’m the only person in the house who hasn’t been issued a membership card.

It started when my daughter informed me that I’d given her the wrong spoon for her yoghurt.

Not a dirty spoon, not a broken spoon, just the WRONG spoon. Apparently, it was too deep. Too deep! This from a child who once ate jelly with a plastic spade.

My son immediately joined in, explaining that he has a special cereal spoon because the handle feels better. I examined it. It looked exactly like every other spoon in the drawer, although apparently there’s a subtle difference that only children and highly trained forensic scientists can detect.

So there I was, surrounded by perfectly serviceable cutlery, watching two children reject stainless steel with the seriousness of Michelin inspectors. They can’t remember where they’ve left their shoes, but they can identify their favourite teaspoon from six feet away. I’m honestly considering entering them into some sort of Olympic cutlery identification event. We’d bring home gold, provided nobody gave them the wrong medal.

I decided they were both being ridiculous.

Then my daughter caught me pouring my tea into a different mug because the first one didn’t feel right.

“Why are you changing cups, Mum?”

“Because I prefer this one.”

She stared at me.

I stared at her.

Somewhere in the distance, I could almost hear generations of mothers laughing.

The worst part is that I’ve now started noticing other things. I have a favourite fork, a particular bowl for soup and a glass I refuse to drink orange juice from because it somehow makes the juice taste wrong.

And my other half? He insists he doesn’t care which mug he gets, but somehow always manages to find the enormous one that holds enough tea to hydrate a small Welsh village.

So I’ve decided to stop judging the children.

We’re clearly a family of highly sophisticated dining enthusiasts trapped in the bodies of people who occasionally eat baked beans straight from the saucepan.

Although I’ve drawn the line at my daughter requesting a particular spoon for ice cream because apparently it makes the ice cream taste colder.

I’m raising two children, and somehow I’ve become the unpaid head of cutlery at a restaurant that doesn’t even have a Michelin star.

So come on, do you have a favourite mug, spoon, fork or plate that nobody else is allowed to touch, or is my family uniquely qualified for a cutlery-related psychological assessment?