We had a wedding today. A very close friend. A very, very close friend. A second wedding, so a lower key than the usual fluff and paraphernalia we are used to.
And, of course, there were the tantrums. Monkey Boy hates weddings and did not want to go. Flat out refused.
Its not like he had a choice. He had to go. This was the wedding of a close family friend. He had to be there.
It turns out – after much screaming, crying and discussion – that weddings “are gross” because “there is kissing”. Oh, and “kissing is gross”.
It turns out – according to a five year old Monkey Boy, whom I have just this very morning discovered that he has developed that aversion to girls as normally occurs at or around this age, becuause they “are gross’ and “have germs” – that everyone just “stands around all day kissing each other, and its really gross”.
Ok. Right. We seem to be getting somewhere with this.
Well, I personally don’t recall attending that particular wedding. It must have been a good one. So good that I have no recollection of it. Or that it never happened.
We eventually sorted it out and convinced Monkey Boy he would be perfectly safe, when came a scream from the kitchen.
A gut-wrenching, sickening scream.
Oh my god! I thought. What has happened? Panic ripped through me. I was sure there was blood. And not before the wedding. Please no. We have to be there. And I haven’t done my hair yet.
I raced to the kitchen – I felt sick. Godzilla was sittiing on the floor, screaming. Screaming!!!
Oh, oh, oh, where is the blood? Where is the lump on the head? Or the knife he found? Or the large, heavy object he dropped on his foot and its been amputated.
“What happened? What happened??” I scream at him.
“I want the green bowl. And he gotted the green bowl!” he managed to inform me between heart-breaking sobs and a pool of tears.
Oh, for fucks sake! Its a bloody bowl. A bowl! Get over it. And stop behaving like a three year old!
Went of to beautify myself, handing instructions to Grumpy Pants along the way as to which pants and shirts were to go on which child. Not hard really. Both had white shirts. One fit the five year old, the other fit the three year old. One had green shorts, one had red.
Simple. And I can go and have my shower in peace.
Came out and Godzilla was wearing his red shorts, as instructed. And a lime green shirt!
“But that was his shirt”, Grumply informs me.
Hmmm, not the instructions I recall, however. Never mind.
“How about you put the white shirt on him? Please? Yes, that one, the one that is his size. Not the one that’s two sizes too big and green. No, its not ok. He looks like a fucking Christmas Tree. Thank you!”
Eventually made it to the wedding.
Even got there before the bride. So that was a bonus.
The bride that Monkey Boy went up to and kissed every twenty minutes or so. Along with everyone else there.