February 10, 2006

Scheduling Conflict


P1000517
Originally uploaded by billyjoebob.
'Twould appear, punkin, that this is the face of an Angel Child.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

No, let's be fair now, it's not entirely your fault. Well ok if we're going to lay blame on someone let's look at your father.

When the nuclear powerplant goes into meltdown, punkin, and they're looking around for the people to blame (aaaah, Tibor), and there's a guy standing there looking kind of bewildered like he never actually beleived that the flashing lights and the sirens and the warning bells and the tannoy screaming "evacuate evacutate evacuate" meant anything. Like he kind of somehow still thought in the back of his mind that this was some kind of a drill and that it didn't really matter if he switched off those rods or opened the escape valve or whatever it is that people who work at nuclear power plants actually do...

That's your dad.

That's your dad, who was standing there at 4am, looking at you in a sort of dazed bewilderment. Who would have thought that someone that small could scream that loud and that long?

Sure, your dad kept you awake through your morning nap, but hey, we had to get to the airport. And, well, yeah, he kind of missed your early afternoon nap too, but you know, Grammy and Grandad lost their luggage so we had to go buy them some undies to get through the next 24 hours until the nice man came with ther bags. Ok so then maybe you sacked in the car for ten minutes, but then we skipped your late afternoon nap because we were chatting and jawing and laughing and let's have another glass of this delightful Yarra Valley sparkling...

Then we got you home.

And it all went horribly wrong.

You're not particularly well at the moment, punkin, you've got a bit of a lingering cold, which is not so much of a hassle when you're sitting up or standing, I mean, you're not the one who wipes your nose anyway, so who cares, right? But when you're lying down in bed, it starts to get to your throat and you cough and cough and cough.

Until I had a wee bairn of my very own, I think that to me the phrase cough til you puke was something of an esoteric one. I knew that it was possible, but I'd never seen it done. Certainly I'd never seen it done with such grace, class and style.

So there we were, at 4am. You'd already been screaming for a solid 2 hours, and I had to go to work in the morning. Your mother, who loves you more than you would think would fit into a human being, got out of her warm comfy bed, snuggled onto the gigantic armchair in your bedroom (purchased precisely for this reason), wrapped you and her into the couchblanket and held you.

You slept soundly from 5 til 7, and it was the worst night we've had since you were born.

The next day you were a perfect, beautiful, wonderous angel child again, delighting one and all with your cheeky toothy grin.

And you love your new guitar.

Love you.

1 comment:

sussy said...

I'd believe that. Hell yes.