“You look tired,” Tracey told me this morning.
“I would,” I told her. “I was up with the baby last night.”
My head was thumping last night and I wasn’t able to nod off for ages, so when I heard Miss1 stirring I snuck out of bed to settle her down with a bottle. It’s not much, and I fully acknowledge Tracey does the lion’s share of this sort of thing. For this reason I don’t expect ticker tape parades or sexual favours, I just feel pleased to have been able to let her sleep.
What Tracey said next wasn’t at all what I expected. Usually I’ll get something between a ‘thank you so much’ and a ‘boo hoo, suck it up.’
But her response this morning cut me to the quick.
“Yeah, right,” she said in what can only be described as a mocking tone.
I searched her face, words and tone for sarcasm and found none.
“I did,” I said. If I sounded indignant it’s because I was.
“No, you didn’t,” she said. This time she went for dismissive. I think I preferred mocking.
Clearly this was going to take some convincing.
“I really did,” I countered. “Really, really.” I never made the school debating team and I’ve never understood how I was overlooked.
But my lovely wife, who loves me enough to bear my children and canoodle with me and after twelve years of marriage still thinks I’m ‘the one’, had only one thing to say about that.
We marched into the baby’s room and straight up to the cot.
“One bottle,” said Tracey.
“You didn’t take it out last night?”
She raised her eyebrows in answer to that.
“Then there’s only one possible solution. It must be on the floor.” I bent down and looked under the cot.
It wasn’t there.
I was baffled. I know I’ve had some pretty realistic dreams, but this one was 3D with surround sound. While Tracey picked Miss1 out of the cot I leaned over to the far side of the cot and turned off the alarm.
And heard a soft thunk.
I bent down again and there it was! It had been squashed between the cot and the wall.
Holding it up triumphantly I turned to face Tracey. If a stance can have tone, I had it.
“See! I did feed her!” I said.
“I know,” said Tracey.
She was standing next to the spare bed we use to sneak naps and change nappies on, holding Miss1 out from her like she was dripping.
She just about was. Tracey’s top had a nice big wet patch over her stomach.
“She’s wet through,” sighed Tracey.
Turns out Miss1 had polished off both bottles last night and the nappy couldn’t handle all the extra workload.
“It’s your turn,” I told Tracey as I grabbed the other bottle and skipped to the door. “I changed her nappy last night when I got up to give her a bottle.”
“No you didn’t,” she said.
I paused and held up the baby bottles.
“Do we really have to go through this again?” I asked her, and left before she threw something at me.
When not typing away over here and checking his stats every two minutes,
Bruce Devereaux hangs out at his ‘BIG FAMILY little income’ Facebook Page.
’raising a family on little more than laughs’