Covered in dog hair and snot, mostly, I manage to finish another series in a binge watchathon. Watching might be a loose term here, it’s more like background noise. I have television dependency issues. Series is watched; while I mostly do other things. Oh yes, I have things, that I do, occasionally.
You got me I usually would just be passed out on the couch and would wake up with drool drenched frenzy searching frantically for my phone-which could have been eaten by our new family members and is probably outside in our garden being tossed around as a newly caught prey or is stuck under my not-so-nimble body on the couch.
Like Indiana Jones holding up the golden idol in the beginning scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark, I triumphantly hold up my lost phone and after checking the time slump off to bed.
Half asleep, shoulders hanging with feet dragging the imminent moment, terror, shooting from my foot up my leg right into your brain, I can feel every nerve connection converting the message until I finally realize what it’s conveying-PAIN.
In the dusk lighting I make out something that looks like it could have been a wooden puzzle piece but it definitely does not resemble that anymore. Pup tooth marks are quite evident, even in dim light and I utter a low FUUUU…dge.
In the dimly lit house I feel like shedding a tear, in the dark on the cold tiled floor on a hot summer evening. That sounds pretty poetic, actually it was more along the lines of ugly crying (Kim Kardashian style) in the dark, on a hot floor, I don’t know who is screwing with El’ Nino and La Nina or who ever is appropriate but GAWD it’s hot. Like sweating bullets hot.
I decide to not cry, just ignore the darn piece of whatever and go to bed.
The kid has decided that sleep regression is the in thing to do and comes to our room at about 1 am and demands to watch “Nella the Princess Knight” which she watches until 4am.
Before your child is born I think you come to terms, albeit involuntary, with the impuissant fact that your slumber time will never be yours again. Our child has always slept well for the most part and I think we might be entering a period of retribution. Having a child of 3 squander this valuable virtue is farcical to say the least.
As morning breaks the husband and I are hankering for something more than caffeine but less than cocaine. The dark bags under our eyes and the glazed over stare will probably have us cast in a season of The Waking Dead. We soldier on. The kid is miserable; this of course is prime territory for tantrum galore. The milk cup is the wrong colour, she wants milk, no she doesn’t want milk, it’s the wrong pants she wants the black ones, she doesn’t like the black ones, she wants the blue ones. And then there’s this one thing that just makes something click and she turns feral. Screaming literally about to climb out the walls. “Sorry Poppet, mama was just helping, I didn’t mean to open the wet wipes” Screams followed by screeches and throwing bodies on the floor, foot stomping galore until someone gets hold of a new packet of wet wipes for her to open.
As I stand in the garage, waving goodbye, feeling utter defeat, I close my eyes, take a deep breath and take a moment.
You see in moments like these; these utter vanquishing moments; moments were you would rather give birth again, unmedicated, than put up with this, these times you need to bring your own brass band.
You got the kid up and clothed, that’s enough to celebrate, so bring your own brass band.
Your kid refused to eat but you somehow got him to suck on a fish finger, it’s food-bring your own brass band.
We need to learn to celebrate the little things in life.
BRING YOUR OWN BRASS BAND
Photo: Miles Aldridge