Missing my husband

Another teacher’s strike meant a full day at home with three children.

After Grumpy Pants left for work, I had all the fun and frivolity of guitar lessons and, once home, surprisingly the older two went off and played nicely together. It doesn’t happen often, so I didn’t interrupt them. Not even for dinner.

So it was that Chippie and I were sitting on the couch together. Quietly. I’d managed to commence the process of donning my pyjamas, but not conclude it, so had my nice top and pyjama pants on. Chippie was completely naked, what with just having had a bath.

“There’s something in my doodle?” he says.

I always slightly panic when I hear such things, recalling the horror of having to extricate beneath-the-stair dust from under the foreskin on one of Chippie’s older brothers when he was of similar age. It was not fun. I got scared and foresaw trips to emergency departments and having to explain. Thankfully, it only required a long bath, but still … I have flashbacks.

“It’s my brain,” he explains, palpating his left testicle with a confused look on his face.

A plethora of comebacks crossed my mind, all of which would have been lost on him. Particularly if his brain had slipped to his left testicle. Which, apparently it had. Or so he informed me, giving a somewhat detailed description of the path it had followed from his head to where it is now resting, according to the four year old.

“Take it out,” he tells me.

And gets a little distressed when I tell him that that is not entirely possible.

He goes quiet again, concentrates hard and suddenly … “There’s another one!”

He now has a testicle in each hand and an even more confused look on his face.

“I think they eggs,” he tells me.

And for the first time in a long time I go from accepting that our lives are what they are and actually

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