Week 44 — A Brief Summarisation of a Lot of Shit That’s Happened

https://www.festivalsherpa.com/18-hilariously-relatable-festival-memes/

It’s been a little different this week, once again. Babies are so dynamic. No more talking about sleepless nights, no more explosions of fecal hilarity to be discussed here! I mean, both of those still happened — and liberally, I might add — but I just shan’t discuss them in this week’s update. I’ve grown now, I’ve changed, I’ve matured.

Hehe…boobs…

The weekend came upon us like a sack of glow-in-dark painted bricks and we buckled up tight for a folk festival, the baby’s first ever music extravaganza the likes of which his tiny little mind had never before seen. He’d heard the radio, he’d seen the TV: now it was time to combine them together as God intended and throw them up on stage in an almighty vomit of bombastic fun. And what a weekend we had! It barely stopped raining, yay for England! So we decided to skip the camping bit and drive home each night (it wasn’t far); it would have added unnecessary stress to set up camp in he rain and actually try and coax a baby to use a tent. The first thing this awesome husband and proud father did when we got there?

I forgot mummy’s wellies. Whoops.

Hell hath no fury like a mother bereft of appropriately rubberised footwear in an unavoidably wet situation.

There followed half an hour of heatedly blaming each other while our little boy stared between us, his pudgy gaze flicking curiously like watching an incredibly interesting tennis match between two retired professionals.

After Wellygate, we slammed a rug down on the grass and made the best of what we could as act after bewildering act splayed their music and bared their souls for our judgmental entertainment, and the baby spent the entire thing crawling around with his earmuffs on, blissfully unaware of everything and anything around him. But he was awfully intrigued by the muddy grass, so that was fun picking bits of God-knows-what out of his gob. Then he slept through the evening music like his daddy used to do at rock concerts he went to as a kid. It’s nice to know that at least some of my genetics have crossed over the biological line.

The first week of our holiday down on the coast was different as well. Now I have to remember to apply all manner of sun-screening methods to the smallest blob of human known to man. Wide-brimmed hats, factor million sun cream, parasols, shaded areas, and so on. Another thing to consider is the temperature of the sea (not exactly something I can do anything about other than ask it very politely to warm up a bit), along with applying a swim nappy to my child. Are swim nappies more waterproof than regular nappies? God knows; I’ve seen my son go 12 hours without a change and end up with the equivalent of a potato sack filled with half a stone of wet jelly attached to his nether regions, so if swim nappies are even more capable of hiding liquids then surely the sea level will drop as soon as my baby touches the water.

If Atlantis is found then it’s because of my son.

We’ve got another week of holiday to come, and there’s so much more to tell! However, I’ll leave you here with a small, slightly embellished excerpt from a conversation I had with my wife regarding the general cleanliness of recently purchased strawberries. I include it here not because we have a penchant for fruit narratives (although bananas provide endless euphemisms for teenagers) but rather because it demonstrates the role of a father of any seniority in the process of pedantry.

’Did you give the baby strawberries with his yoghurt?’
 ’Yes, dear.’
 ’Don’t call me dear, it fucking annoys me.’
 ’Sorry, love.’
 ’You washed the strawberries, didn’t you?’
 ’……Yes. Yes I did.’
 ’You didn’t, did you?’ 
 ’No. No I did not.’
 ’But he could get ill!’
 ’This is true, I admit. But it’s doubtful.’
 ’What happens if he gets e. coli!’
 ’Then I’ll have been proven wrong. But until that time I will be 100% correct. When he starts jettisoning liquid out of both ends simultaneously then come back with the divorce papers.’

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