“It’s one thing after another,” Mrs Neighbour had bemoaned at a BBQ recently, clearly reaching out for a bit of sympathy as she told us the one thing after another which had gone wrong on just that one particular day.
They’ve got seven of the little buggers, she probably thought to herself. They’ll understand.
We do. Which is why I’m not sure they’re ever going to come back, primarily because I’m not convinced roaring at them with laughter in response to a story was quite the sympathetic response they were seeking.
Not just me either. Tracey was in tears.
“He’d decided to make his own breakfast while I was changing his sister’s nappy,” she’d told us, referring to her young two year old son. She, in particular, was wearing a drained like the Murray expression when they arrived, whereas her husband was touting a familiar ‘I don’t know how to help her’ face like I usually see reflected back at me in the mirror.
By the way, I love this kid. Six months it took him to say anything to me or even look me square in the eyes. I really thought I was getting nowhere until his parents told me he calls all the neighbours Bruce. If that doesn’t endear you to a child I don’t know what will.
By the time she returned to the kitchen young Master had the tipped the entire contents of the cereal box into his bowl.
Just kidding. Onto the floor.
We didn’t mean to seem unsympathetic but we remember what it was like to have young kids.
Parenting is, to coin a phrase, like licking a shitcicle: you think it’s going to be a sweet treat but, despite looking all lovely, more often than not leaves an unpleasant taste in your mouth.
And our neighbours are going through that most shitcicle of times of having a baby and two year old.
“Just tell me it gets better,” Mrs Neighbour said.
“Oh, it does,” I assured her. Then I added, “Well, different.” They looked confused so I showed them. “Watch this,” I said. I yelled out to the household. “Time to start the showers!”
We all turned towards the door beyond which all our kids were engaged in watching various electronic devices and within seconds we were nearly crushed in the stampede…by not one of my kids.
“If I don’t say a name,” I explained, “no one hears me.”
“That’s right!” Miss7 yelled out from the room beyond.
But I haven’t got to the best bit of their story yet. The bit which took us beyond cackling to hugging ourselves so our sides didn’t rupture.
“Then the nappy was suddenly full again, because of course it was,” Mrs Neighbour had completed her story with, “and by the time I got back…., she sighed heavily, “he’d added milk. Not a drop in the bowl, of course. The last of about two litres, straight onto the floor with the cereal.”
Meaning she couldn’t even make herself a cuppa coffee to take the edge off.
As you’ll see below, it was all a little bit cute enough to take a photo to send to Daddy at the cereal only stage. There’s no photo of the final mess because she assures us, contrary to popular belief, you actually do have every reason to cry over spilt milk.
As she seemed to be having trouble breathing and seeing through her own tears by the end of this hilarious sorrowful story, I’m assuming Tracey couldn’t have agreed more.
Raising a family on little more than laughs
