Friday, 11 May 2012
I was understandably apprehensive given the general chaos of our home and worried that Egg might attempt his 'party trick' of smothering the poor boy to death by way of over affectionate hugs - or that Dumpie might shoot him in the eye with one of his long range toy rifles.
My morning admonitions must have worked though, as Egg was on good form and fairly chilled for the duration. Even Dumpie toned things down somewhat and agreed not to hijack Egg's little friend as he is often wont to do.
However, when tea time came round I was presented with a challenge. How to feed this merry band of pranksters when our little guest was used to gourmet French fare (as evidenced by the remains of a lovely stuffed pepper dish I spotted on the table when picking Egg up from his house a few weeks ago). Clearly mini pizza's and fish sticks weren't going to cut it. I was going to have to channel my inner Oliver and stay clear of any Kerry Katona Iceland-related tat.
Auntie Ba cleverly suggested I go Mexican and serve taco's. She even agreed to whip them up given my utter ineptitude for meat handling (that's 17 years of vegetarianism for you...I wouldn't know my way round mince if you paid me).
At the table a short while later, as the meal wound down, the subject turned to Dumpie (as it often does) as he was caught sneaking biscuits, slyly claiming that his tummy was actually a giant cookie. (He's probably not far off in terms of composition.)
"No Dumpie you have a magic tummy remember?" I said, reaching over and lovingly stroking his tiny but protuberant tummy. (It's true, since he was born we've teasingly referred to it as such as it's so 'Winnie-the-Pooh'-esque...tiny but proudly high and round, garnering not a few indulgent tummy rubs.)
Egg piped up. "What do I have Mama?"
"A magic forehead of course!" I replied. (Egg has a lovely high rounded forehead, which though permanently eclipsed by a thick dirty blond fringe, has none the less been the recipient of a multitude of kisses over the years as countless pretend wishes have been made...)
The sweet little French boy then piped up that he reckoned I had magic legs.
"Well you gave birth to three boys and you can still walk, so you must have magic legs". Quite.
Dumpie put his fork down, sat up straight and proudly declared, "No...my Mama has MAGIC NIPPLES!"
I nearly choked on the carrot I was eating. Then I had an uncontrollable urge to giggle. And then I caught sight of the uncomfortable look on the little French boys face.
Dumpie didn't let it go.
"Mama has magic nipples that dance like this" (at this point he sat up even straighter and wiggled his little chest like a belly dancer)
"...and they can even squirt milk!" he announced proudly, standing up on his chair, placing two trigger fingers on his chest and pretending to shoot an imaginary army with a round of live ammunition.
So there you have it. I officially rock. I have magic nipples. You heard it here first.
Thursday, 10 May 2012
It's true. I had forgotten. Somewhere between the wee, the poo, the vomit, the squealing for attention, the crying and the endless laundry, I had forgotten my near escape.
Returning home from the supermarket, arms laden with fairly healthy foodstuffs, I was just crossing a side street (my right of way I might add...ahem) and suddenly out of nowhere a big grey people carrier driven by what looked like a Somalian taxi driver on acid (his face as he veered by resembled nothing so much as Edward Munch's 'The Scream') brushed my leg as it careened around the corner - causing me to lurch in a panic onto the sidewalk to safety. Bloody hell.
(You should have seen the face of the blond woman in the back who had ceased talking on her mobile to shriek in panic as she realised she might be spending her morning at the police station instead of at her desk drinking Starbucks).
Anyway, alls well that ends well, and luckily I had my wits about me (for once) and jumped away in time, but it was close friends, it was close. And it got me thinking about how your whole life can change in a second. And it also got me thinking yet again about how lucky I am.
Believe me, there are a million things I would change (AM going to change - I swear. "Do you HEAR me skinny jeans?") but for the moment I am pretty grateful with my lot.
For one thing, three nights ago little 'Squit' (aka 'Bang Bang' my youngest son) slept through for the first time all night (well from midnight to 6am, which these days constitutes a whole night). I nearly cried with joy when I awoke and it was morning. Hurrah! Then the next night he did it again!
Okay, so last night he woke up in the middle of the night, but it was just once, and it was only because he wanted a cuddle in our bed. Fair enough. But still, is that a shard of light at the end of the tunnel? Might the period of severe sleep deprivation, tights and dirty t-shirts at the school gates (trust me, NO amount of lipgloss and dark shades can hide the truth that you've totally given up...i mean totally given up) and being grouchy 24/7 be nearing an end? (This morning, dressed in a skirt for once, as I dropped Dumpie off, a friend commented, "You look great!" I didn't, I might add. I just didn't look like I'd wandered off a really bad channel 5 afternoon movie.)
Only time will tell, but in the meantime, in the words of the behemoth rock gods 'U2', "It's a beautiful day...don't let it get away". So I won't. Out to skip about the streets doing errands with a drooling chubby baby between rain showers today.
Looking both ways of course. You never know when danger might be lurking round the corner. (And for the record, I am not referring to the death trap of a VW Campervan the husband seems intent on purchasing and I seem intent on letting him purchase...)