A Shitty Case Of One Upmanship
byThis is a true story. It happened to a friend of a friend of mine. My ‘nugget’ story has stirred up a hornets…
The funner stuff. The dumber stuff. The stuff I stuff up.
This is a true story. It happened to a friend of a friend of mine. My ‘nugget’ story has stirred up a hornets…
Last night my friend woke up to her young son tugging on her sleeve.
“I pee in bed,” came the dreaded whisper.
“Poo!” came the cry from the bedrooms. “She’s got poo in her hands!”
Nothing gets us moving quicker than this sort of exclamation because if there’s poo on hands there’s going to be poo on walls and furniture in no time at all.
With five girls, you might assume we would own a lot of Barbie dolls and accessories. You would be wrong. ‘A lot’ would definitely be understating it. I’ve been in toy stores with less extensive Barbie collections.
“She look like you, Mummy,” Miss3 said to Tracey, holding up one of her favourite Barbie dolls.
‘Like me?’ thought Tracey gleefully.
“What are you doing home?” I asked Miss9 at lunchtime. “You haven’t hurt yourself, have you?” I looked at Tracey. “She hit herself in the head with the shot put, didn’t she?”
Here’s a list of ten things my kids don’t learning good. They’ll get there eventually, I’m sure. The oldest two did. Eventually.
Is it just me, or do other couples find they kiss a lot less after they’ve been together a few years?
“Urrrk,” said Tracey as she walked out of the bathroom. “Urrrrk gak uuurrk.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked Tracey as Miss1 tottled past her towards the lounge room.
“Gawwwk!”
I know this sound.
“Do you ever think about what age you might be when you die?” Tracey asked out of nowhere last night. We were sitting on the lounge watching a Sixty Minutes on some guy who was rescued after bobbing around at sea for some ridiculous amount of time.
When Tracey arrived home from the shops this morning I was sitting on the balcony steps with my hands firmly clutching two great of wads hair.
“What’s wrong with you?” she wanted to know.
“I’m on a health kick,” I told her.
There are things which happen in your life for which you have no satisfactory explanation. Why do you own so many odd socks? Why does the chance of a car breaking down increase the further from home we drive? Why doesn’t my wife want sex every night? Why aren’t all coffee baristas created equal?
Our Sunday timetable had collapsed under the strain.
I’ve lived in G-town for eighteen years now, but apparently this isn’t long enough for me to know my way around.
“You!” Tracey said to me when I arrived home today. Shoulders slumped: bags under her eyes: (thankfully) not holding a weapon. It wasn’t her best look.
“What have I done?” I asked her, my voice echoing the whiny tones of the eight year old kid I once was.
Having a baby? Great. Think you’ve got it covered? Fantastic.
You’re wrong, of course, but good to see some positive thinking. Just a heads up – the baby isn’t your problem. Everything you think you know about your wife is wrong. Why? Because she’s a mother now, and mother trumps wife trumps lover trumps drinking buddy.
But don’t panic, I’ve got your back.
Last night Tracey cooked the family up a pot roast and we enjoyed it with roast potatoes and greens. Noice.
Unusually, there were leftovers, mainly because she cooked up half a beast. As we sealed it in a container and put it in the fridge it was decided we could bypass the Vegemite tomorrow and the meat was earmarked for lunches.