It’s Not All Mary Poppins

Christmas Gift Idea for Mary

“Here we go, little boy, one more mouthful.”

Nigel, who had till this moment been greeting each spoonful with impatience and glee, suddenly makes a little “gu-huck” noise in his throat. I know what this means, I do, but there’s no time to react. Just one little “gu-huck”, and then his high chair tray is suddenly filled with his lunch, a glistening and blurred recap of the food he’d so cheerfully ingested only moments before. My hand, hovering close to his dimpled chin, is similarly bedecked. Glistening strands, decorative in shades of green and tan, are suspended betwixt hand and tray. Clean the boy, clean the tray.

Wash my hands. Moisturize.

Step in a puddle. Wipe it up with a paper towel.

Wash my hands, because you just never know. Moisturize.

Arthur is crying. He has a bloody nose. This happens with Arthur, we know the drill: Firm pressure on the bridge of his nose for five minutes. The bridge of his red-and-yellow speckled, blood-and-mucous bedecked nose. The bridge in the middle of his snot-covered, tear-streaked face. For five minutes I sit with him, finger and thumb clamped firmly onto the bump that is the source and centre of a swirl of bodily fluids. Assure us both that the dripping has stopped. Clean him up.

Wash my hands. Moisturize.

Lift Darcy from the cot after his nap and discover the source of the puddle. The boy is soaked from the navel down. Peel of his clothes, strip the sheet off the cot, throw it all in the washer downstairs. Disinfect the cot.

Wash my hands. Moisturize.

One of the boys comes to me, holds out two blocks, one in each hand. “These blocks are wet!” We put them in the sink, rinse them off. I don’t make the connection.

Wash my hands. Moisturize.

Decide to tidy the rest of the kitchen floor. Lift Darcy’s cot. Discover a couple more “wet” blocks under there. Disinfect the blocks.

Wash my hands. Moisturize.

Baby Alice is in her highchair, fretful. “What’s up, little girl?” I say as I lift her. What’s up is baby Alice. She’s been sitting in something that’s been rotting for weeks. That has to be it. Couldn’t be a mere diaper producing that eye-watering stench, could it?

Oooh, my yes. Brownish green goo runs from sweet little cheeks to mid-thigh, and reaches as high as a darling little bellybutton. Forty-seven baby wipes and a change of clothing later, she’s back to her sweet self.

Wash my hands. Moisturize.

Is there any bodily fluid I haven’t encountered this noisome day? — Don’t answer that! — But if anyone is thinking of Christmas gifts, the economy-size jug of a lightly scented, heavy duty moisturizer would be much appreciated. Either that or shares in Proctor and Gamble.

Thanks, and Merry Christmas!!

December 15, 2005 Posted by | Christmas, eeewww | 19 Comments

What Makes a Good Daddy?

Arthur sits on the kitchen floor, legs straight out in front, doll tucked snugly into the front of his overalls. The eternal hockey game edges closer.

“Hey!” he calls out a warning. “You guys are bein’ dangerous to my baby!”

George looks at him with some disdain. “Well, you can’t bring a baby on the ice!”

“Yeah!” Darcy chimes in. “Your baby could get hurt. You’re a bad daddy!”

Two responsible daddies glare as the BD slinks off the ice.

December 15, 2005 Posted by | parenting, socializing | 6 Comments