Out for lunch with a couple of friends, Chippie in tow, and he loudly, as one does when they are three, declares he needs to go to the toilet.
Off we trudge, after my tremendous attempts to extract myself from the corner where I was positioned.
I wait and wait whilst my three-year-old ablutes his bowels. This takes approximately four days. Meanwhile, I’m busting for a bit of a wee myself, and dance around, wad of toilet paper in hand saying “have you finished yet?” with increasing angst.
Three weeks later, I’m afforded the luxury of relieving my bladder, extended to the point of unfathomable. As I allow myself the extravagance of breathing again (because if you breathe with a full bladder, you may very well wee your pants) he loudly asks “Do you don’t like penises?”
Appalling grammar aside, my engorged bladder had taken away all my ability to respond with a witty comeback for the benefit of those standing within earshot. You know, outside the toilet door to three suburbs away.
I could have said “Yes, I’m one of those IVF mums we’ve been reading about in the papers of late … you know, the ones most of society appears hell bend on judging?”
Or maybe something like “Lesbians generally don’t.”
Or even “No, no I don’t, you’re right. After my latte, we’re heading off to have yours surgically removed.”
But no … brain dead.
It always happens like that, doesn’t it?