Week 5: Pumpkin Soup Shit Days
Monday was a terrible day for B. The twins began fussing and feeding at 3.55am and didn’t let up. At 3.20pm I received a text that read This day can’t get much worse, come home soon, xo. On the bright side it seemed A’s pooing had come with a flood of pumpkin soup filled nappies. B’s previous texts had included updates, replete with little turd emojis. I now know three turds is not a good rating when reviewing the day. I think it may have been that the little turd emoji were smiling that had given me the sense that the day had started well enough. Much more accurately, it was just full of shit.
Needless to say, I didn’t dawdle when picking up L from Childcare. Only stopping briefly as he corrected the ladies at reception when saying goodbye. Lately, he has begun informing people of his first and second name on occasion, rather militantly, when coming or going. And I love hearing L say his (and my) surname so proudly. It humbles me and makes me realise I am not as contemporary as I thought. Myself and B had always had this unspoken agreement that her surname would be a fifty per cent consideration when naming our kids (and to be fair it probably was). But the thought of having a son without my surname filled me with a strange dread. And I cowardly begged B to let them all have my name. We also both saw some merit in not singling one boy out by giving him a different surname. But I really (probably) just cared too much about it. I suppose I believe that there should at least be a conversation about surnames, but sometimes, your weird, manly hang-ups are valid too. I mean, if these boys are complete fuck-ups, I would like people to know who to blame. It certainly won’t be their mother’s fault.
B looked beat when we arrived home. Stuck in place on the couch where I have begun to expect to see her. Dark eyed and weary. Attached to one or both of the boys. Her tousled hair a sign she hadn’t even had the chance to shower. I did my best to make up for the manifested horror of my life-leeching newborn offspring. But by bedtime we had probably both ground to a halt. Physically at least, I had begun to fray. By morning a combination of a sore throat, headache and the sweats had me laid up in bed texting-in sick to work (to be honest, I’d probably only need one of those to occur before deciding to stay home). I was feeling lousy at home and happy.
Most of the day went by without a hitch, however riding the rollercoaster with B, instead of watching (or texting) from the sidelines of course comes with all the requisite ups and downs. But I would rather that than working in a warehouse sweat box, whilst a concrete cutter saws through my eardrums all day. Which was what I was doing Wednesday. Tanned, tank-topped and tattooed tradies (real tradies) walked in and out telling me how awful the noise was (in mime, as I couldn’t hear a fucking thing) ignoring the fact I was clearly stuck in this hell dimension for the foreseeable future. 3 o’clock brought with it a more spirited exit than usual.
At Childcare I arrived to find L transfixed by a newly installed chicken incubator. Complete with some newborn chicks. Immediately upon seeing me he stuck his hand under the netting on top of the enclosure (which possibly could have been secured a little better) and scooped one up, a little too tightly in his hand, “Look, Dadda!”
“He-heeeey.” I said with equal parts enthusiasm and worry. “Be careful now.”
One of the carers expertly intervened, “Maybe we should give that to Dad.”
As I received the baby bird from L, I was immediately swamped by a bunch of small children who had noticed the impromptu break out. Holding a tiny, yellow ball of cheeping fluff whilst a group of strange children nervously try to stroke it’s head was confronting. But at least I managed to giggle like an idiot as well. The inherent sweetness of the scene was not a portent of things to come.
The day was hot, and our new daily afternoon ritual of bouncing on the tramp’ (complete with sprinkler underneath) resulted in L face down, flat on the mat bawling his eyes out. His favourite tramp’ activity is something he calls Count With Hands. I hold his hands and to a count of three, we bounce together, higher each time. On three I double bounce him into the air, steadying him as he reaches up just above my eye level. Every now and again I mistime the double bounce (I say I, but I’m pretty sure it’s L that can’t quite get the timing) and go close to yanking his arms off. This time though, being wet, his tiny hands slipped right out of my grip and I double bounced the tramp’ mat right into his tiny face. His legs slipped out from under him, creating a whipping motion that would have floored a grown man, let alone a two year old (he’s pretty much three). I think I almost broke his nose. But whatever doesn’t smash your face in can only make you stronger, right? It’s still L’s favourite thing to do (although I’m pretty sure I concentrate just that bit harder now).
My work week ended with a jack-hammer rattling off all day. And me working harder than I’d like, so it was a relatively normal, shitty week. When I got home the boys were good. We had home cooked curry from B’s aunt for dinner and as I prepared it, I got to listen to loud music whilst I pottered about (it’s the little things). L floated into the kitchen at one point and asked to be played like a (very heavy) guitar. Which excited me so much the very real possibility of throwing my back out seemed irrelevant. As did most of the week’s bullshit.
The weekend was filled with visitors, generously donated home cooked meals, small children screaming in each other’s faces and lots of bouncing on the tramp’. And, despite one particularly dark period of mine on Saturday morning (some more man moping), was a joy to endure. Visitors can sometimes be an inconvenient part of having a newborn(s), but most of the time it is an absolute pleasure to give your children to other people and just walk away. Take a deep breath.
