I’m happy to report that both of my children survived the weekend, with all of their digits and most of their hair. I’m calling that a win. We had a shaky Saturday, if I’m honest, when I tried to move the sleeping feverish child from the sofa to her room. What’s that saying...‘Let sleeping spawns of Satan lie…?’ Something like that. Well, this effort to clear the living room (so that the Watching of the Six Nations could transpire un-shushed) proved to provide the Mother of All Backfires, as my half-banshee child screamed the house down upon my gentle and loving attempt at removal - thus waking Cherub #2. THAT ended up in a 50-minute drive around Nant-y-Moch (which isn’t quite as beautiful when draped in thick, squelchy mist) and me missing the entire second half of the Wales v. Italy game. Luckily, balance was restored on Sunday as the Screaming Eagle fancied a trip to the farm (not a euphemism – the in-laws are farmers) and the Drool-and-Poop Factory slept for 3 hours, giving me plenty of time to watch the England v. France game and clean the house in preparation for Mummy’s return. Expect the short story and afterschool special, “Daddy Needs Some Sleep” sometime in the summer of 2013.
In the meantime, enjoy this clip of Paul Reiser (post-Aliens but pre-Mad About You), introducing us to 'My Two Dads' - a sitcom about a child who is placed into the care of two men by a strict-but-kind-hearted judge. Of course, the Two Dads in question are two former boyfriends of Nicole's deceased mother Marcy (never explained) - both of whom we'd have to assume slept with her mother around the same time (never explained), with hilarious consequences. Anyway, it takes TWO of you to do this job? Child, please.
PS - How Dick Butkus got overlooked for an Emmy in his role as Ed Klawicki, I'll never know. Maybe his commitment to the role was diluted by all of the guest appearances he was making in 80s television. Murder, She Wrote, Night Court, Matlock AND Growing Pains? A man can only do so much, Dick (there's never been a more important comma than that one right there).
Italy's Luke McLean. Apparently,
he can spell 'lasagne', so he's Italian.*
So I'm in charge of my two daughters this weekend. Mom is off to the nation's capital to 'watch' Wales v. Italy in the Six Nations Tournament. For my friends who live outside the UK, Six Nations is an 8-week rugby union tournament when the best players in England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and France play to see who's the best team in Europe and Italy plays guys like Kristopher Burton, Paul Derbyshire and Luke McLean in the hopes of someday not being the whipping boys of the Northern Hemisphere. For the players on their respective national teams, it's an opportunity to apply their skills at the highest levels of competition, and outside of the Rugby World Cup, I'd imagine nothing means more to a rugger than to claim the Six Nations title. For the fans, it's an 8-week piss-up and an annual excuse to be in a pub from 10am on Saturday until lunchtime Sunday in the name of sport. And, seeing how my espoused has had exactly one night of alcoholic consumption in the last 18 months, I'm expecting her to make the most of it. Which probably means she'll be asleep in the corner of some pub somewhere by about halftime.
So while she's off bnoozing (boozing and snoozing, of course), I will be home with a 2-year-old who seems to have developed an inability to focus on anything other than Fireman Sam (LIVE!) for more than a minute and a half and a six-month-old who I'm sure would gum me to death if she a) had the chance or b) could sit up. My coping strategy depends a great deal on the following, the absence of any one of which could result in me being overrun by toddlers and/or eaten by my cat:
Keep them entertained. I have a tv repairman on retainer for the weekend. He has promised to supply me with a working television and/or live Fireman Sam actors upon request. I have also secretly learned to juggle shiny objects and cats.
Keep them well-fed. The fact that I am off bread for Lent means that we have plenty of stale pieces of it in the house. I live in Wales, so water should not be a problem. So that's the basics covered. Besides, worse comes to worst: I've seen my kids - they could stand to lose a few pounds.
Keep them well-rested. I have invested in several hundred metres of black-out blinds. While they sleep tonight, I plan to darken out every window in the house. Hopefully this will convince (trick is such an ugly word) their body-clocks that we now live in the Arctic Circle and being awake will not be necessary until mid-April.
Keep them dry. I've adopted the US military's 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' policy and will assume that they both are urine and faeces free until they can articulate a coherent message to me that they are otherwise. If they can't ASK for me to change their nappies, then it can't be that bad, right...?
I think that pretty much covers all my bases. Right now the only potential failure in my carefully considered plan of action is if they don't like watching rugby on television. If that turns out to be the case (or I cannot convince Darling Daughter #1 that Sam Warbuton is Norman Price's cousin), then I need to find something else to occupy 300 minutes between now and Sunday afternoon.
Also: is 2 too young to be sent on a beer run?
I'm reasonably confident that most of us will survive.
* I had to look up how to spell 'lasagne', thus proving my on-going theory that I'm 7/8th Irish.
I went to meet a colleague on site and while I was waiting (turns out I got the day wrong), I noticed a very distressed student kocking on the doors to the building. I had seen him come down from his car a few minutes earlier, dressed in a t-shirt, ripped jeans and no shoes (it's 6 degrees C outside). A couple of his fellow students had gone in a few minutes earlier without a problem, so I figured he was just trying to get their attention. He banged on the door a few times... then went around to another door. When he came back to the first door, he was markedly more upset. It was only when I got out of my car that I noticed that he was SCREAMING at the top of his lungs, calling everyone inside the building 'stupid fuckers'. When he took a break from pounding the woodwork and hollering obscenities, I said... 'Can I help?' He replied - 'Yeah, you can get me in this fucking building. I've got an exam and the fuckers have locked the door!!. I started to say 'OK, I'll just go get a porter...', but only got to 'OK, I'll...' when he returned to beating the door down and screaming (I think to me, though he wasn't looking in my direction), 'I just went to get my medication!!!'. Naturally a few questions popped into my brain... is he mentally unwell? What medication did he need? Was it the one that allowed him to look outside and see that it was freezing outside and therefore to put on shoes? I guessed it was probably more serious, as he also appeared to have some food and an epipen of some kind.
'OK... let me just go get the porter so he can let you in. Don't worry, I'll only be a few minutes'. I jogged off, looking back to see that he was still screaming at the door and pounding away. I got back a few minutes later, having contacted the porter and asked him to come let the poor guy in. 'Someone is coming now. He won't be long,' I said, in my best Cesar Millan voice. I was tempted to make hypnotising steer horns with my pinky and thumb, but I resisted.
When I got back to the distressed student, I could see that he'd cut his hand from the knocking. 'This is seriously going to affect my grades,' he said. 'They did it on purpose, the fuckers'.
I tried to soothe him: 'OK, I'm sorry... we'll get you in, don't worry. Someone will be here in just a minute.'
'They locked the door on purpose to keep me out,' he said - apparently unsoothed.
'Oh, I don't think it's that... see, the door is on a numeric keypad,' I said - again, trying to abate his conspiracy theories (although secretly I suspected the Locker-Outers might be in cahoots with the Shoe Stealers).
'I KNOW!! I just forgot the code!! LET ME IN YOU FUCKERS!!!' (He'd returned to frantically thrashing the door frame).
At this point, I probably could have been more compassionate but I just couldn't resist asking, 'Wait, so you know the code?'
'No, I don't know it! I forgot it!'
'So you USED TO KNOW the code?'
'Yeah, but we always prop open the door with a chair.'
Thankfully (for me and for him), the porter then ambled up the path and said 'Would you like the code?'.
'Yes please!' we both said, with the same degree - though I suspect different sources - of desperation.
The porter gave us the code. The student tried it. Twice. Then he resorted to calling the lock a fucker. I tried the code and the door opened. The student raced off without even so much as a 'Thank you, fucker'.
Don't get me wrong, I feel for the guy. Sitting an exam is never nice, and it can't be much better when you spend the first 20 minutes of it beating your knuckles bloody on the door to the building. I really hope he calmed down enough to do his best on that exam. If not, I hope the invigilator is able to grant him mitigating circumstances and allow him to resit. Either way, maybe he should watch this clip and remember that it's almost Christmas. After all, if he's been good, maybe Santa will bring him some fucking shoes.
