Hi! <Waves>

Funny and honest tales from a made-to-work Dad of three, wobbling, graying, and laughing his way through parenthood. Armed to the teeth with Nerf guns, full of pie, fighting a chocolate addiction, but genuinely honoured to be at least half of Team Parents (yay!).
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23 May 2015

A Light Goes On...

It's parent-late (9.15 #IRock), I'm watching tele, Mrs. Amazing is out convincing young men on wine sample tables that she didn't quite get the full taste, and could she have a bit more, when a light at the top of the stairs goes on.

 
(#notmyhouse)

It's a bit surprising as, although there are four of us in the house, only me is allowed up this late. (I am).


Its probably not BabyBoy1. Oh man I hope it's not him. He shouldn't be able to escape his cage cot yet.

It's probably not Miss4 as she can't reach, although she has been getting stalls for some things, unless I'm there of course 'Daddy can you reach...'. 

Which means it is Boy7. Who should be in bed. Asleep. FAST asleep removing his grumps, his school stress and fatigue that seem to overwhelm him every term, the utter wuss.


I go upstairs to investigate. Like a ninja-cat wearing cushion shoes I go up the stairs and land, silently, at the top of the stairs. Any noise now could wake everyone. I must be silent. I must be one with the floor and my surroundings CREAKKK CREEEAKKKK... Stupid floor.


I check each child, in reverse chronological order (obviously).
BabyBoy1's door is wide open and I can see him splatted on his bed. Wish I could sleep that well.
Miss4's door is open the exact 15degrees she requires, so she has not left her room.
Boy7's door is wide open. AH HA! 
Only he isn't in his room, he's AWOL!
<Crosses fingers for well paid superhero job in the city>

I find him in the bathroom about to have a wee, door wide open for all to watch.


For a change I don't shout at him, or berate him for being out of bed, I've done that too much lately, and I'M SICK of hearing me moan. (I suck).
For a change I just stand there and watch him (his back, his back, I am 2m away looking at his back) (Hmm still reads weird, but hey, you weren't there, it was fine).

He looks half asleep and his bed hair is impressive. I wish my hair looked like his. I wish I had Batman pajamas. (Mrs. Amazing sleeps at the heat of a thousand suns, pajamas are not needed).


I notice his head is huge, if you compare it to his body that is. That is a big head for a little body, must be tiring carrying that lump around all day. He looks little against the toilet, how do I forget he is this small?


(Boy7 doesn't wear a kilt or cap)

And when the hell was the last time I just looked at this boy? When he was still cute I bet, before Miss4 out cute'ed him (by bloody miles) and defo before BabyBoy1 cute'ed them both out of the water, pond, ocean.


Boy7's presence during the day is so huge, so massive, so enormouse (I want to spell it this way) it's like he's an adult, a really annoying and whiney adult, that refuses to use a knife and fork and likes winding me up.
But a fun adult, a sweet adult, a happy adult and... why is his head so large compared to the rest of him? Then a penny drops in my head.

Well a boulder, a huge foff boulder-penny crashes over dumb-thoughts-cliff and plops right into the middle of my realisation-pond (Yeeha! Boy got metaphorical skills) (Oh hang on...). 
His head is so large compared to his body, because he is a child. It's a classic sign.
A tiny little boy of 7 trying very hard to be like his adult, fully grown up, Dad (Grown up? No chance <sticks fingers up>).

And I keep getting cross with him for that... for stuff that doesn't really matter. Man I suck.


He is very cute when he's half asleep, my little boy is adorable. I don't even call him that any more, he got bigger. My little boy is seriously wonderful and I love him. Why don't I think that more often?


He then proceeds to have the longest, noisiest, like a fire hose, wee in history. #SoProud. 


When he's evennnnntually done, we exchange 'sups's and I walk him back to bed full of pride and loving thoughts.
I want to tell everything I've just been thinking, (maybe not the head size bit), I want him to know how much he means to me, I want him to know that I am doing my best as Dad, that I'm still his mate, his bud, not just this grumpy old man that is always worn out and cross with him.

But Mr. Mouth, the utter twat, refuses and only allows me to mumble 'back to bed them'. Damn me.
I tuck Boy7 in and then flatten him a little, hoping that says more that words. Then it's a kiss on noggin and 'Don’t let the dinosaurs maul you in your sleep'.

Night mate <wells up and goes off to punch the cat>




P.S. Don’t worry I didn’t punch the cat… Couldn’t find him...


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