A right dog’s breakfast

I decide that I can no longer cope. It’s not so much overwhelmed as underwhelmed. Each and every individual has their own personal agenda, none of which appear to have any overlap. My adult daughter accosts me in the utility room.
“So…… I’m going over the hill after all……a different party.”
“Oh good. It will be nice for you to have a chance to pl…..be with your friends.”
“But it’s a pot luck…….any ideas?”
“Garlic bread, always goes down a storm with starving students.”
“Brill.”
I leave her free reign of the kitchen and gambol off to my other responsibilities.
My other responsibilities appear to have lost their marbles completely. “What on earth do you think you are doing? I already told you, leave your duvet upstairs, no nests downstairs.”
“But, but, but……?”
“No ifs no buts no coconuts, we had a deal my fine friend!”
“But……dah nest is for my fine friend.”
“Which fine friend?”
“Fatcher!”
“Oh no, is that smelly dog in there with you too?” I haul six foot of damp duvet off the pair and drag it into the utility room, where I bump into the next deviant. “Good grief! Whatever are you doing in there!”
“I like it.”
“Come out of the laundry chute before you break your neck. I know it makes a great hidey hole but you might fall out. I don’t have time to go to the emergency room today.” His sister knocks us for six as she comes bowling in from the garage, trousers wet from knee to ankle. “Good grief! Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
“Nothin……jus kickin a ball around.”
“In the rain! You’ll catch your death.”
“Hardly Mom, this is only lil ole California sprinkles, isnthat whatcha always say?”
”!”

“Mum?”
“Yes dear?” I keep the ‘what is it now tone’ out of my voice, not because I am good but because she will notice.
“What happens if you put 4 cups of water in the bread mix rather than 1 and a half cups?” We peer into the bread maker, “looks a little like bread soup.”
“No worries I’ll feed it to the dog and start again.”
“What happens to a puppy if you feed him 4 pounds of raw bread dough do you suppose? Tell you what, take Thatcher to the party over the Santa Cruz Mountains. See if he still suffers from car sickness and report back.”

Look into the future

“I be need!”
“What do you need dear.” When will he learn to reference back and give me a clue!
“I be need goggles.”
“Goggles?”
“No!”
“No?”
“No. I be need glasses.”
“Glasses?”
“No!”
“No?”
“No. I be need shades!”
“Shades?”
“No. I be need eye fingies.”
“Eye thingies?”
“No. I be need……binoculars.”
“Binoculars?”
“Yes.”

I look at my son. Four years ago there were several items, ordinary items, that he was unable to name.

The few that I particularly recall were television, microscope, binoculars and telephone. He refused to name anything that could remotely be called food. All of them were off his radar and therefore of no interest.

The expert tester encouraged him to point at the pictures he chose, the ones he was unable to name. He was unable to point at the pictures for fear that his finger tip might accidentally brush the texture, as paper was poison. Instead he broke silence and read out the fine print on the margins of the pages, their reference numbers and letter codes, a gesture that struck me as generous to a fault.


“Well, you know, I don’t think we have any binoculars dear.” They were given away, just like so many other things that were grouped together in the category of ‘boring,’ or in the alternative category of ‘items of torture.’
“Oh.” He looks a little crest fallen and I await the meltdown. Moments later he skips away, as happy as a lamb, or a sheep on speed.


He returns shortly thereafter, clutching a cardboard tube and dives into the kitchen drawer where his magical fingers tackle an ‘item of torture,’ the seleotape dispenser with it’s little serrated edge, the one sure to slash jugulars.

I step forward but he bellows me away, “I do it all my myself!”

And indeed he does!

“See! Ta dah!” he thrusts them towards me, less than an inch from my nose, “dey are beed super spy binoculars!”

I feel a little light headed as I watch him snatch them away, the binoculars of torture and place them over his eye sockets, the most sensitive part of his face. He hesitates and both hands quiver, his eyebrow arch to make more room until miraculously his vision is obscured by cardboard rings, surely the most superlative day in the universe.

In the bathroom, I step over the unraveled mounds of toilet paper, another mountain conquered.

Extraction by fair means or foul

I decide that I no longer care for Amazon’s packaging system.

It has degenerated from ‘open with a pair of scissors and collapse the box with a cleaver,’ to ‘open box with a chain saw.’

I have struggled to extract the contents for some minutes but avoided drawing blood.

My youngest son presents himself before me, amid the carnage of the semi opened packages. He pauses to gain composure and then makes his announcement.
“Look mummy! I am choosed my own cloves.”
“Indeed! And you put them on your body too!”

I cheer, as wonder how he has managed to squeeze himself into clothes put aside for the rag bag. Not only has he physically grown three of four inches since he last wore that ensemble, but it would appear that he also branches out into other pastures new. It is a rare moment to witness, when your child does something willingly, independently and successfully. Not even a prompt. I remind myself, again, that this is what independence looks like. It may not be my version but it’s still undeniable. I admire my corseted son and his cheesy grin for a job well done.

The sleeves are tight enough to restrict blood flow. The hem of his T-shirt gradually creeps up. The waistband on his trousers, slowly creeps down. The bikini effect. I wonder if I should suggest a change of attire but don’t want to dampen his enthusiasm. It occurs to me, that this may be a gift in disguise. Nudity will be a thing of the past, since he will be unable to remove his skin tight clothing. Now that’s what I call a fringe benefit! I’ll need a can opener to extract him myself, or maybe a chainsaw?

He sucks in his cheeks and puckers his lips, goldfish style to ask, “why I am not dah puffer fish?”
“Er well, you certainly swim like a fish.”
Or rather a crab! He groans as he exhales and his tummy pops out.
“No! I am meaning that I need to be small, er smaller……fin as dah puffer fish when he is not puffed.”