We’ve all seen it. A little kid saying or doing something super-duper cute and their mother standing to the side clearly daring women around them not to burst an ovary.
Ah hell, as parents I think we’ve all done it.
My latest episode was on Sunday afternoon at Rainbow Beach. We’d taken the kids there because Tracey was photographing a lovely couple on the beach and thought it might be nice to take a few pics of her own kids.
“Just keep them out of the water,” she told me.
I can only assume she was taking the piss.
All those impossible tasks of Greek and other mythology seem a little meh compared with having two arms, five kids and a beach which stretches in both directions as far as the eye can see. The only safe option was to let them kick a couple of waves like all the other families there.
Which, of course, quickly lead to our older kids being, in quick succession, knee deep, ankle deep, waist deep and dunked.
And then that moment hit which made a little more bearable the shit I was going to be in with Tracey – and no, I don’t mean when the two young lovers in the waves beside my kids started to play a game which involved repeatedly undoing each other’s bikini tops.
“The water came up to my kneeeees!” squealed Miss5 as she held tight to my right hand.
“Me tooooo!” screeched the rigid with excitement Miss3 clutching my left.
I grinned. I nodded. I gushed.
Over the dull roar of the breaking waves I listened with the intentness of a prisoner in a jailbreak for any hint other people had heard my little darlings being so very cute. If Tracey was there I think I’d have suggested we stop by the hospital on the way home to reverse my vasectomy and try for another baby.
Fortunately for our collective sanity, another wave rolled in and before I had a chance to find my wife Miss5 spoke again.
“Daddy!” she shrieked. “It came up to my wee wee!”
This time I distinctly heard chuckles.
“Raising a family on little more than laughs.”