“Why are you up already?” Tracey asked me this morning. It was 6am. I never see 6am.
“Not well,” I said, holding my stomach. “I’ve had cramps for an hour and now my head hurts.”
While Tracey got the bigger kids ready I helped Miss1 out of her cot and set up the breakfast table. We soon had everyone fed, changed and ready to leave the house.
Only today we were going to do it in shifts. Because I was home for the day Tracey left the two littlest kids at home with me and raced off to deliver the bigger kids to their classrooms. I sat down on the lounge with the idea of watching some news.
I got as far as turning on the telly.
“No, Daddy,” Miss3 told me, taking the remote out of my hands and switching the channel to ABC2.
I have a confession – when Peppa Pig comes on I’m glued to the set. It’s not often kids shows have good role models for the dads (we’re usually portrayed as dim, clueless and stupid) but Daddy Pig is pretty awesome. Plus he’s fat, wears glasses and forgets to shave, so essentially he’s like me.
The trouble with being mesmerized by the telly is you tend to miss things going on around you.
As the show came to an end I looked around and spotted a gluggy mess to my left.
‘What the hell is that?” I wondered. I picked it up and brought it up to my nose. Banana.
I now know why bananas grow so high up. It’s so the little kids can’t reach them and spread their mushiness all over the forest, or in this case the house. One of the boxes of fruit I purchased last week was Lady Fingers and I’d left it under the breakfast bar instead of up in a tree like nature intended, so I guess I had it coming.
I looked around the lounge room at the scattered remnants of two bananas. I’m not sure how much Miss1 got into her mouth but I’m guessing she still felt pretty hungry. The good news was most of the bananas weren’t on the floor, they were on Miss1.
Once she was clean and dressed I set about cleaning the floors and walls. I gave her a bottle of milk to keep her occupied while I started digging banana from between the boards of our wooden floors. It’s like she was grouting the kitchen.
When I had up all I could I stood back up with my handful of yuck and walked to the bin-
-and had to grab for the kitchen bench to stop myself from falling over as my feet lost all traction and slid out from under me. Miss1 had managed to take the lid of her bottle and was attempting to drink out of it like from a cup. With about the same success she’d had at banana eating. Milk was all down her front, in her hair, under her chin, up her nose and in her ears. Her mouth looked pretty clean.
Bath time. Again.
Tracey arrived home just as I’d put Miss1 in her third outfit for the hour.
“That’s not what I wanted her dressed in,” my sharp-eyed wife said.
“Well, excuse me, but do I criticize you the minute I step in the door?” I asked her. And by ‘asked her’ I mean ‘snapped at her’.
“Cramps, sore head and now grumpy. This sounds serious,” Tracey told me. Then she made her diagnosis. “I’ve got it! I think you’ve got your period,” she said.
Then she walked off laughing rudely at her little joke.
Whenever she’s got her pain in the stomach apparently I’m a pain in the ass, so it’s only fair she gets to play my role.
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