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Would we wake up to a kitchen covered in pools of soft dog poo? It’s this kind of jeopardy that makes country living so spectacular. To find out if were did, read to the end of the entry.
I took my daughter to the supermarket this morning, but no one offered me anything for her, so we had to come home again (ha ha, I am funny). This girl is more fun every day and it’s my privilege to hang out with her. I think she’s warming to me. But I like the fact that whilst my love is unconditional, hers is not. I have to earn it and can lose it over the most unexpected of gripes. “I’m not inviting you to my birthday party†is one of her major retorts when she feels slighted. She has been heavily anticipating this fourth birthday ever since her third one, even though it’s still three months away. He decided at her third birthday party that her fourth birthday cake would feature Spiderman and Elsa and she has stayed very true to this vision (though it now sometimes incorporates a tray of cup cakes featuring other characters. I admire her resolve on this, though know that the minute the cake has been baked she will decide she likes a different unlikely pairing of fictional characters and be deeply disappointed on the actual day.
My new life is full of surprises - the main one being that I don’t mind clearly up shit anywhere near as much as I imagined before I became a father, but also, I guess, I expected my kids to adore me and want to hug and kiss me all the time (at least to begin with), but every hug and kiss and kind word is hard won and means more because of that. So even her wanting to come to the shops with me was a lovely leap of joy for my heart, even if I knew she was really more interested in the biscuit she’d be able to buy (like her father biscuits are one of her downfalls, will actresses be too?) or because she got to ride in the trolley.
I remember loving sitting up in that little seat too and still recall the utter sadness of they when my mum told me I was now too big to do it. I was 28 years old, of course. No, I wasn’t, but wouldn’t it be funny if I was and still went in that seat. Think how funny it would be. I’m not doing all the work for you.
I can’t have been much more than 4 - those seats are tiny and my daughter is already finding it a bit of a squeeze. I already knew it was a symbol of the loss of youth and innocence when it happened to me.
Like my daughter I would call out for delicious items as we passed them, hoping that they’d end up in the trolley and then my belly - like my parents I said no to nearly all of them, but occasionally my daughter charmed me and used my love for her against me. I bought her a little sweet bucket for her Halloween trick or treating. And made her practice saying “trick or treat†even though I knew she had nothing up her sleeve if the people she calls on opt for trick. It’s one of the emptiest threats in all human interaction, especially when delivered by a three year old.
Phoebe helped me place the items in the trolley and towards the end, when I had much too much stuff, she clung on to the pack of kitchen towels to stop it falling off. She even unloaded a few things on to the conveyor belt for me - our fresh bread slipped out of its bag and she didn’t know if it was funny or if she was in trouble, but said “oops†and offered that she didn’t realise it would do that. I told her it didn’t matter. Hardly anything really does. Our parents pretended. And I guess we’re supposed to too. But this girl is rarely deliberately naughty and I hope I will cut her some slack all her life, whilst still instilling a sense of justice and bendable morality.
Later I walked the dog with my son in his Maggie Simpson star-coat and strapped to m chest in a way that would infuriate Piers Morgan for being unmanly and because he hadn’t thought of anything else to write about that day. There was a bitter wind hitting us in our faces (me and my son, not me and Piers Morgan) and I wondered if my son was warm enough (he hates having hats or hoods on, so I suspected not). I felt like maybe I’d taken him on a march to his icy death, but he seemed OK when we got home. How do you know what a baby can cope with?
My wife and I had a lovely night in front of our real fire, eating Thai food that I had prepared (though came from one of this packets where you get all the ingredients, which is one one step up from microwaveable.
It’s been a tough year, but I hope we’re through the worst of it and can have more days like this where we enjoy the company of the monsters we have created and each other. Of course the fuckers in charge of the clocks decided to make it difficult for us tomorrow morning.
It had been a horrible day of news and I was feeling aware of the fragility of existence and was full of dread that bad luck or bad people might fuck up the lives of my terrific little children. Luckily my little children exhaust me so much the these thoughts didn’t keep me awake.
The dog didn’t shit in the kitchen, but she had more diarrhoea tonight and I suspected we wouldn’t be as lucky tomorrow. I put some newspaper down in the hope that that might save me. Would the dog poo? Would the newspaper work?
Yes and only very partially. But that meant I only had to deal with 3 of the 4 pools of dog shit, so I think I am a winner.
