Walking through a shopping centre the other day I saw a Dad with a newborn baby tucked under his armpit. The baby was warm, safe, quiet and comfortable. He wasn’t being held in a sling, or cradled like a box of eggs. He was just hanging with his Dad. I felt like David Attenborough for a minute. Yes, we were bathed in the neon pink of HMV’s flickering signage, but it was lovely.
Where does BUB.1 get his accent from? “I’ll shyyyyyyyooow you” he says as he runs to show me his favourite car in a magazine. Meanwhile BUB.2 demands some “mulk”. Mulk? Then you hear it, the sound of your own voice. And your children’s voices are suddenly transformed from the warblings of angels to the cringe-inducing sound of your own terrible, awful, pathetic voice on a tape recorder. BUB.2 has now started to screech Willy Wonka’s name repeatedly, like an old fishwife. The sound of my own voice rings in my ears.
With BUB.1 sitting on a potty and BUB.2 propped up against wall next to him red-faced and spluttering, I found myself wearing a Halloween skeleton mask and a Comic Relief red nose as I leaned head first into the washing machine only to pull out amongst the clothes Willy Wonka’s reading glasses that had been through a 40 degree spin. They were a bit steamed up, but on removal of the skeleton mask I couldn’t see any further damage. A good moment. A highlight.
Whoops. I knew this blogging lark would bite me on the bum. I think it’s been about two months since I’ve written a single word, maybe more. In my defence, I’ve moved house in that time, and the evenings have mostly seen me glaring moodily at boxes and wondering where the puncture repair kit or the wine glasses are or what has happened to my larger jeans.