In case you’ve been living under a rock for the last couple of years, you’ve probably seen, or at least heard, of this clip …
Well, Charlie bit my finger.
My day was like this:
Some serious fuckups in the morning that reqired me to be all growed up and responsible and make some tough decisions. I’m not referring to forgetting to put leftover birthday cake, mud with bright yellow white chocolate ganache coating it in the lunchboxes and knowing I’ll be nagged about it tomorrow morning. Bigger, more technomological stuff than that.
So I had a tantrum and ate some food and sat back down and got some work done.
Then our Christmas tree was delivered. This meant it was dragged through the house, from front door to back, as is the fashion with houses these days, where the open plan living area is towards the back of the house, so as to enable alfresco dining. Also, the Open Planess of said houses means there really is only one place for the Christmas tree, and that’s in the Open Planny area. At the back of the house. Away from the front door.
I left the pine needles that had dropped off on it’s journey lying on the floor. Nothing like getting into the Chrimstas spirit and swearing about being stabbed in the bare foot by a pine needle to really experience Christmas. The smell, however, bought a smile to my face – delicious. But not in an eaty kind of way. In a deliciously olfactory kind of way.
Grumpy arrived home, mid me in the middle of something, decided he’d tend to the tree there and then and not wait me “in a minute, I’ll just finish this offf”. It wasn’t long before the swearing from the living area got to me and I thought I’d best not wait “a minute” and go offer my help. The tree was up. Then down again. Then up. Then down. Then I said “what do you want me to do, quick, cos I’m right in the middle of something” and he said “hold the tree for me” then sat on his bum beside the tree and whatched the cricket whilst I waited for him to actually do something. Then I swore.
Tree up, and plonked in middle of lounge room in front of TV. And no time to tend to it today or this evening. Off to partake in the usual Monday Afternoon Running Around Chaos. Hot, sweaty and flustered, I managed to deliver everyone to the various afterschool activities and do the shuttle run, drop off / pick up thing that we do every Monday afternoon, then drive home listening to the drama about missing the Simpsons every Monday night. My kids have it so tough.
This evening we were also treated to much “can we decorate the Christmas tree now” and had to think of new, novel and innovative responses that weren’t “we’ll do it tomorrow night, it’s bedtime now”, because that answer is, apparently, stupid and illogical and only induces more “can we decorate the Christmas tree now” whinging.
Finally coral the bigger two into the shower, and hop in the bath with littlest one, who as decided that using my left nipple as a turntable for the bath-Thomas is fun (and not at all hurty), and that trying to shove Thomas up my nose is also fun. As is driving it back and forth over my vagina, jumping on me and thrown a cold, wet fish at all my exposed bits.
As an encore, and just as Monkey Boy decided to join us, he clasped the middle finger of my left hand between his teeth. And bit. HARD!
And, as firmly as possible I said “Let go!” in that voice that implies you are seriously pissed off and that if he doesn’t let go there will be some serious consequences.
He let go. Slighty. Not enough to enable me to pull my finger out without fear of having several layers of skin ripped off in the process. Anyway, he was teasing, as he immediately chomped down. If I thought it was a hard chomp before, it was nothing on this.
Monkey Boy sought to help by calmly and rationally informing me “Stop laughing, Mummy. If you laugh, he’ll think its funny and keep doing it.”
Yes, thank you for that insight. And replied “I’m not laughing! It hurts!”
Only it came out more like “Fuck, no … not laugh … fucking, let GO! … hurts … laughing, not lau … OUCH OW OW OW OWWWWWWWWWWW LET GO NOT FUNNY!”
And tried to pry his teeth apart. Which, for the record, you cannot do like you would a dog you are trying to give worming tablets to.
Eventually, I was able to pry his lockjaw apart and say “Ow, fuck!” under my breath and do that laughy-cry thing where things really hurt so bad you want to cry, but you laugh because you are one of those people who has a pathalogical need to laugh when things are going terribly badly, and when there is much pain involved.
There was so much pain because he nearly drew blood.
I crawled out of the bath, followed by Monkey Boy’s “that really hurt, Charlie” in a weird English accent, and wandered out to Grumpy and said “Charlie bit my finger!”
Actualy, what I really said was “Little fucker just bit my finger and it fucking hurt! LOOK!”
To which he pissed himself laughing and said, in a weird English accent “and that really hurt”.
Yeah, I live in a house full of comedians.
If this finger doesn’t bruise, I’ll be really surprised. And if it doesn’t bruise, I’ll also be really pissed off because “Charlie bit me, and that really hurt, Charlie!”
(I have also decided Charlie’s are Evil. That kid in the clip has an evil laugh, too. Cute, but evil. And not funny when its the Charlie in your bath who just bit your finger. He, too, has an evil laugh at times like this)