I’m being tested by my wife.
I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong, but she’s definitely on to me for something.
It all started on Friday when she decided to go to a yoga class. The setup was perfect.
“Ok love I’m going now” (note: when you are reading this blog out loud do so in fairly hushed tones to be sure the kids don’t hear it.”
“Cool – enjoy it. Drive safe.”
“I will. I’ve left their dinner in the kitchen. See you later.”
I’ve left their dinner in the kitchen. I know what you’re thinking here. What an awesome mom (ok, she is but that’s not the point) – so organised and all that dimwit of a husband has to do is make sure the kids get fed and go to bed.
Shame on you all.
I can confirm that feeding two kids when spaghetti is on the menu is as about as easy as herding mercury through a bed of nails. In an extraordinary display of solidarity both of the little treasures apparently lost all feeling in their hands, especially when it came to any sort of twirling or shoving-stuff-into-gob movements. So good old dad was up and down like a pair of honeymoon panties and back and forth like a…like a Newton’s cradle that was given as a wedding gift and inexplicably taken on honeymoon.
When I raised this issue with SWMBO it was laughed off with a merry “But they’re normally so good with spaghetti.” I had my doubts about this having never seen any evidence of said spaghetti swizzling sure-fingeredness but being a patient and level headed individual I was prepared to let it go.
Another fitness class to start the week and so daddy was on supper and bed duty once again. Having learned from Friday I immediately made sure that any pasta on the menu was of the short-enough-to-land-on-a-spoon variety and dinner passed without incident. So organised was yours truly that I managed to get some yogurt, honey and cinnamon down them without a food fight, plonked them down in front of the TV (In The Night Garden is re-installed as house favourite) and set about a couple of chores (brought in the washing, packed away anything outside that is allergic to the impending rain and fixed a rogue piece of wood on our gate).
Once TV time was over I did everything by the book. I:-
– turned on the light in Rhys’ room
– switched on his fan
– herded the cats into a holding area (the actual cats – otherwise they go ballistic during story time)
– smuggled Arwen out of the living room while smuggling in some golden raisins for Rhys (he gets a few minutes bonus TV while I put Arwen to sleep)
– ensured all hugs, kisses, squeezes and waves were administered to all who required them
– got Arwen into the cot, under her blanket and with a taglet in her hand
…and all this faster that you could say WHERE THE SHITTING SHIT HAS MY SHITTING WIFE PUT THE SHITTING DUMMIES?
After more swearing and some general hunting around I had to swallow my pride and ask a four year old child where the dummies are now kept. Rhys looked at me with infinite yet weary patience and led me to the wardrobe where they were nestled next to some clothes. Obviously. Why on earth did I not look there first? I mean it’s not as if for Arwen’s entire cot-sleeping existence the dummies are either in the cot, under the cot or on the shitting changing table next to the shitting cot.
What a silly, silly boy I am.
Still, on the bright side I did then pull myself together long enough to make up a story for Rhys where he was magically transported via our shower cubicle to Thomas Land where the Fat Controller allowed him to ride on the engines. He was even able to take his new friend Boris the bee (not sure where Bella, Beatrix, Boju and Horace were tonight).
On the even brighter side I’ve realised while writing this that shit is more expressive a word than I remembered.
Apparently my wife is going out again on Thursday…