It all started when Godzilla came boucning into our bedroom at some stupid hour. Not the Stupid Middle Of Night Feed Hour, but the one along the lines of coming in before we’re ready to be awake.
Worse, he was cheery! Sometimes I do wonder if we brought the right child home from hospital.
So there is is, wide awake, happy, cheery and bouncy. He climbs into be, wriggles, giggles, crawls under the doona, bounces a bit then yells “Daddy’s dick is facing backwards!”
At which point he rips the doona off, laughs hysterically and shouts “It’s sticking up the wrong way!” and laughs more, and louder. Fortunately, our bedroom is right at the front of the house, with a large, non-double-glazed window. So all passers by can hear even whispered comments.
Our house is also on the way to two main roads, a train station and a tram stop. We get some good traffic.
It went from there, the Penis Kind of Day. I had finally got around to begging and bribing everyone to get a leg wax, timing it so that Chippie would be between feeds, and I could pick Godzilla up from kinder immediately afterwards. Immediatley after Grumpy’s blood had returned to his brain, he advised that he had to go into work.
No option but to take Chippie for my appointment. I prayed to the Leg Wax God(ess?) that he remain asleep for the 40 minutes. He was fast asleep when we walked in the door, and gushed over by the gorgeous, breast enhanced, part time pole dancing beauty therapist who works there.
I was ushered into a room, leaving him out the door – safe and secure. The second I had my pants of and lay on the bed, he started up. All I could hear was breasty-pole-dancer-leg-waxer-manicurist saying “Oh, baby. Please don’t cry, baby.”
Then “How do I make the baby stop?!”
Several “Stick his dummy in his mouth” and “It’s beside his head!” and “Yes, that is his dummy, well done!” later he stopped. And started again. Pole-dancing-bossom-lady had a client, so my beautician kept fit running in and out stuffing a dummy in. The alternative was for me to parade out in my (daggy, beige) knickers to sooth him, wax strip hanging off my leg, in front of the wall-wall-floor-ceiling window facing the busy street.
I think my bikini line is crooked!
I get home, manage to wangle a shower after feeding Chippie and myself, only to have to collect Monkey Boy, stuff down more food, race out to pick up a friend of his and whip him off to his guitar concert.
I remembered: spare nappies, spare nappies in case I ran out of spare nappies, a spew cloth, wipes for bums, faces and hands, the camera and the video camera. Perfect.
We even go their early and found a park. 4 boys in tow (well 3 in tow and one in arms) we find some seats, Monkey Boy gets his guitar tuned and I spend the next 20 minutes telling them to just please sit down and stop running around, while feeding Chippie and lamenting the fact that only crap wine was available on the night.
Get the video camera sorted before the concert started, with a fresh new tape just out of the plastic. Turn it on, test the zoom etc etc and the battery went flat. No chance of Grumpy seeing it then.
Get a few photos of his fabulous performnace (it would wanna be after practicing and whinging every night this week) and sit through several more performances.
Funny how everyone elses kids are just not as good as your own.
Go for a hot chocolate with three big boys as it was raining out and hoped that the rain would stop. Grumpy met us at the cafe.
Then I made him take the penises home. I’d, quite franky, had enough of this Penis Kind of Day.