The 3 stages of Peekabo

Stage 1: Lovely sweet, innocent, Peekaboo

I put a cloth over my head (wondering what I can smell).

Where's Daddy?
BabyBoy1 panics

'WHERE THE RUBBER DUCKY HAS DADDY GONE?'

'One minute he's here, then poof, he's gone! He's magic!'

'WITCH WITCH BURN HIM!'

I pull the sick soaked cloth off my head and mentally note to check cloths before putting them on my head. BabyBoy1 erupts in smiles and laughter. Daddy has magically re-appeared.

I'm brilliant. It's brilliant. He's brilliant.

Best game ever!

(Unhappy I had the cloth on my head, I got Boy7 to wear it.
Made me feel loads better)

(Yes, Roses do grow out of his head)

Stage 2: Crap Hide and Seek

Peekaboo has evolved. You can now move and we call it hide and seek.

Miss4 loves hide and seek.

'Daddy come find me!'

I watch Miss4 hide behind the curtain. She sees me watch her hide too, giggling. Her feet are sticking out of the bottom of the curtain. Bless.

The sun is shining behind her perfectly silhouetting her tiny body in the curtain. She is giggling noisily and calling out 'Yooohoooo' to help me out.

Finding her may not be the challenge she imagines it is. (Or Mrs. Amazing has been making comments about my finding and looking skills, again...)

But I make a show of it like a puppet from sesame street.

Where's Miss4? Is she here? <I look under a pen>

More giggles escape from behind the curtain.

Is she here? <I check under my cup of tea, and drink it>

Giggles.

Is she in the chocolate cupboard? <Whilst I'm here...>

Giggles.

Is she behind the kettle? <Makes a round>

Giggles.

Much pretending later I pull the curtain back and 'find' her.

Good game, laughs all around.

And no one nearly has a heart attack.


Stage 3: Ninja skills

It's no longer peekaboo. All the fun and innocence of the original game has gone. It's not even joyful hide and seek. Boy7 has ramped up peekaboo to the extreme. It's now comes with a warning, it's Ninja Attack. (Great game).

I've had a long day at work. I'm tired and I just want to sit down with a gallon of tea, eat chocolate until I need tummy settlers and watch comedies. But no, the house monster needs feeding and it wants dirty laundry.

Not paying attention I open the airing cupboard to get all the laundry out of the laundry bin, unaware that Boy7 is currently playing 'Peekaboo' with me.

It turns out that Boy7 started playing the moment I got in the door. Where ever he is, he hasn't made any tell tale sounds. He is in stealth mode, utterly silent, awaiting his prey.

Oh and everyone else is in on it. 
The gits.

Where's Boy7?

I ask innocently looking away from the laundry bin.

I look back just as Boy7 explodes out of the laundry bin shouting.

'BOO'!

Ekkkkk! (This is an ancient battle cry I learnt from a well hard warrior, it may sound (look) like a girls scream to you. But it is actually an ancient warrior battle cry, I swear) (Tits).

Everyone laughs at Boy7's brilliant 'Peekaboo'.

Deepbreath!... Deepbreath!... Deepbreath!... Heart racing...

Breath... Breath...

Potential heart attack... Pride in shatters... Must avenge... Not dying... Be cool... Be cool... Don't punch him...

I lean against the banister for a moment, to clear the spots before my eyes, and then finally join in the laughing (Whilst silently plotting revenge).

Still, he keeps me young...

She Is Taking The Smeg

Miss4 has carefully, and fair play, it probably took her a lot of time and hard work, made a mess on the floor.

(Exhibit A: Note the precision)

In fact she hasn't just made a mess on the floor. 
She’s gone one above that. She’s graduated from just making a mess on the floor, she is now making made an ‘organised’ mess on the floor. 


The implications:
a) Some poor sucker is going to have to pick it up. (ME! Bet it’s me!) (Mrs. Amazing did it, she spends less time written stupid blog entries and instead just tidied it up. Weirdo).

b) 3m2 of our wooden floor is now a death trap. An actual, literal, real one, literally. I'd estimate the probability of death is about Domestos - Kills 99.99% of all known parents.

c) There is now a new 'Art' installation that cannot be disturbed, moved, or slipped over on. Else there will be lots and lots of tears and Miss4 will probably not cuddle me until she needs a car.

d) The house’s Feng Shui is ruined! Death traps at the bottom of stairs really block up those positive vibes.

e) I am going to die this evening in the dark, when getting medicine or water, at ARGHHHO'clock in the morning. I slip easily. I hurt easy too.

f) g) h) and bloody i) Despite mine and Mrs. Amazing's best efforts to battle the exploding mess of the house, Miss4 is not only thwarting (I love that word, thwart,thwart,thwart) our best efforts, she is mocking us. 

She is making mess in a organised way. 
Yeah just let that sink in. Look at it! There's a pattern there! <Sobs>

(Exhibit B: The death trap)

In our faces! Mocking!

Making mess…. but in an organised way. Oooo... <shudders>

Has she no shame?

This is the work of a real criminal genius. It's the equivalent of stealing a Picasso but leaving behind a Damien Hurst.

'I did it because I can. Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha'

Fine. 

You win this battle Miss4, good for you. 
But it's been noted and when you do start introducing boys to us you'll find your baby photos are annoyingly close to hand. Always.

<Grins>

Plus what young boy isn't impressed by a Dad that sings show tunes!

Heh heh <Prepares cape>

She Can’t Sleep (Nor Can I)...

‘I can’t get to sleep’ says Miss4.

Well... <takes deep, deeeeeep, breath>
That’s because you’re stood in kitchen, where all the lights are on. Not in your lovely soft bed. I’d find sleeping here a bit of a push. Not impossible mind, if you could start up one of your never ending stories for me, then I could really show you how to sleep.

(I was actually looking for a picture of a Dad falling asleep at work surrounded by thousands of tea cups but couldn't find one on google... wait… Selfie tomoz!).

‘I’m not tired Daddy’

Er.. actually you are. You’re bloody tired. 

You’re more tired than me, and I have been pouring tea down my throat all day to stop me falling asleep where I stand (please swap places with me, zzz). You are so tired that earlier you threw a shoe at Mrs. Amazing in anger (Wrong to be a bit proud?) .

You fell asleep whilst eating your evening-breakfast cereal (don’t ask) and only didn't get a face full of milk and wheaty-crap because I saved you which I now regret doing.

I march / push / poke Miss4 back up to bed. 

‘Can I have some water’

Piss off Urgh! Ok fine. Water is a basic necessity and I cannot begrudge it, blah blah blah.... I like water next to me when I sleep. You can have water. I will get you water. Yes, fresh water (grr).

Even though WE ALL know that

a) you won’t touch a drop of it

b) you’ll neck the lot and need a wee later. Or worse.

Oh and FYI, just for next time, if you asked me for water when I was still in the kitchen, well that would have been good.

Thud thud down stairs. Trip over fussy cat (git).

All tippy cups have gone into hiding (HOW? We have 6!). 
I consider a normal cup, but spills, electrics, floorboards, Miss4’s world record spillage record.

I wash a tippy cup up quickly and badly, get half way back upstairs before I am overcome with germ guilt, and then turn around, go back downstairs and re-wash the tippy cup again properly. Then have to rinse it as well, as I used too much washing up liquid, for one fecking cup.

(Tommy Tippee cups - Not spilling stuff since 19<cough cough>)

(Tommy Tippee cups - Stopping my daughter from spilling everything, always, every time, on everything)

Thud thud up stairs. Knees make audible creak on the stairs, just in case I wasn’t feeling old enough, thanks guys. Shove cup of water into her hands, tuck her in Hou-bloody-dini tight, seriously nothing could escape that, and kiss her lovingly on the noggin.

‘Ow you’re spikey’

Yes I am. Me man. I have stubble. My face for no good reason that I know of seems to want to be covered in hair. Nose and ears especially. Happy days. 
It is part of me and lovely though you are - I am not smegging shaving to please you.

I’ll do tea parties, run around wearing capes singing, I’ll even play with that scary-arse doll you have (it's eye is wrong!!!), but I am not shaving to please you. That has to be going too far, surely.

I’ll shave for your Mum (Mrs. Amazing) and maybe mine, if it’s a very special occasion. Very. Rich uncle died, that kind of thing. But please know, that in general, this face, my face, your father’s face, as god intended, will be hairy at times.

‘Daddy I like Mummy best’

Oh good!… (I’ll shave later)...