It’s 9:09 AM, I have Cheetos cheeseballs next to me right now, and I have the strongest urge to eat them with a toothpick and start counting cards.
Wifeage left a very sweet note for me to find this morning, the kind that signs off with something epic like, “I love you to the moon and back… and back… and back…” and trails off into tiny lettering that you squint to read and finishes with “forever infinity!” Piehead might be coughy, give both kids some Figleaf Shit.
“Figleaf Shit” is a codename I devised for the 100% Pure and Unblended Olive Leaf Extract that Wifeage swears by. The need for a codename came about because the children aren’t ready for me to bandy about names like, “Freshly-Squeezed Assjuice from Satan” or “Oh Holy Fuck Why Woman Why Do You Hate Me?”
In comparison, not that bad.
I give them Figleaf Shit, mixed in with their juice because I’m not a horrible and cruel man. I offered up a lolly chaser, but oldest boy declined. Then I did a shot, and Boy Howdy did I need a lolly. I pulled out Pie’s Halloween candy and ate something waxy that may or may not have been some sort of aphrodisiac. The Chinese on the side was prolific and there was an entertaining picture of a white rabbit.
While I was patiently waiting for my hallucinations, and making the kids’ lunches, Buddy comes asks for some more juice.
“Figleaf is bad joojoo isn’t it?” I say.
“Dad,” he pauses for effect, then screws up his face, sticks out his tongue and says, “It’s like Hitler ordered up a lolly… then sent it back, because it was so bad.”
This classic moment led into a discussion about one of the little kids’ cartoons, Caillou. Buddy reckons I should go easier on the bald little bugger and stop saying “Caillou is Hitler!” because he clearly has cancer and had to steal his look from Charlie Brown.
Sydney Shimmy Shake
Boo is waiting patiently in his high chair for his breakfast with The Wiggles Youtube Channel to keep him occupied. Piehead wanders in, watches blankly for a moment and asks, “What country are The Wiggles in?”
Having a partially-autistic child has its downsides, like everything. I try not to be mean-spirited or tease, but sometimes I really just want her to use her fucking brain and sarcasm is my natural tone.
“You saw the beginning of ‘Shimmy Shimmy Shake’ right?” I say.
“Yeah, with the guy on TV?” she says. She is 9 now, and everything is a question.
“Yep, where did he say they were from?” I’m trying my best to be gentle.
“Um… I don’t remember?” she says. There wasn’t enough time for her to think about whether or not she remembered, she just didn’t want to invest any brain energy towards the matter.
“Did he say ‘direct from Sydney’?” I’m still gentle, but a pinch of jackass is edging into my voice.
She brightens. “Yeah, yeah he did!” she says happily.
“And,” I lead her a bit, knowing this is a Slam Dunk, “What country is Sydney in honey?”
She scrunches up her face and cocks her head. “America?” she asks.
I don’t fault her too heavily, for between my native accent and The Simpsons, the lines between the Aussie and American cultures are easily blurred. But still.
I shake my head and go back to Boo’s breakfast.
Undaunted and still happy, Pie asks, “Can I have a lolly?” It’s well after the Juice From Satan’s Ass could still be bothering her.
Only here in this writing, and sometimes under the secret covers with Wifeage, can I admit that if she’d known what country Sydney was in, I probably would’ve said she could instead of grumbling, “No.”
She threw on her backpack, jounced towards the door, paused, then turned around and bounced into the toilet for the next 18 minutes. Getting ready for, and then going to, school, is apparently an activity that takes up so much mental energy that she was unaware of the need for a healthy poo until she was almost out the door.
Lovely Ammo Queen
The olders are gone to school, and I am sitting down to feed the patient and hooting Boo. Bug walks up. Born for the stage, you can tell when she’s theatric by the way she holds her chin up, half-closes her eyes and steps very lightly into your presence.
She’s wearing $5 ballerina shoes with blown-out toes on the right foot, a bright yellow velour flower dress that’s 2 years too small, and the plastic ammo belt from Buddy’s assault rifle is clipped in a circle and resting daintily on her head.
She walks in announcing, “I’m the Lovely Queen of Everyfeen! And I am here to get some Lovely Princess Yogurt, but only the Lovely Princess Yogurt without the Lovely Princess Strawberries or Lovely Weetbix or any cereal or anything lumpy or yucky or stuff I don’t like… Cleem Yogurt! Lovely Princess Yogurt that’s Cleem!”
“Yeah babe, “ I gesture at her baby brother, “I’ll hook you up when I’m done feeding Boo, alright?”
A regal nod. Her chin goes higher in the air, her eyes half close again and she turns to leave before stopping herself.
“Can I play with Scarlet and Snake Eyes and Baroness and Storm Shadow?” she asks, pointing to each of the posed-for-action G.I. Joes on my shelf before adding, “And Wolfie?”
My hesitance is visible, but only because she insists on calling Snake Eye’s wolf “Wolfie” when his name is, in fact, “Timber”. I’ve told her this. Lovely Queen of Everyfeen chooses not to listen to such nonsense.
So she sits and plays and I spoon fruit and cereal mash into her baby brother’s reluctant but happy mouth. Her games amuse him endlessly and it both helps and hinders feeding him, but we find a way despite his best efforts to grab/dodge the spoon.
DAMN I’ve missed feeding a baby. Didn’t really realise that until just now.