A week that begins with a three-year-old dropping your iPhone down the toilet and ends with him spewing and pooing in the marital bed at 4 in the morning is never going to go down in history as the BEST WEEK EVER, is it?
My friends, last week was a DOOZY. The best thing about this week is that it’s not last week. For that I am forever grateful. And yes, on Monday, Frankie was watching those weird Kinder Surprise videos on You Tube (which, we’ve realised, are the reason he’s suddenly speaking in an American accent, and asking for JELLO) while I worked and Alice slept. He ran off to have a wee. He took the phone with him. He dropped the phone down the toilet. He weed on the phone as it slowly glug-glug-glugged down the u-bend. No amount of drying out in rice could save my poor, uninsured iPhone this time. It actually sizzled as I tried to turn it off. A phone that sizzles is a phone that’s been well and truly pissed on.
That was Monday. On Tuesday I went into hospital for my lady operation (by which I mean, an operation on my lady bits, not an operation to BECOME a lady. Or an operation conducted exclusively by ladies). It was pretty painful, truth be told, and I had moments of wondering what the fuck I’d done to myself. Then the morphine kicked in, and I spent the rest of the evening wondering what the fuck my name was, and who the funny little people calling me mummy were.
Morphine’s some heavy-duty shit, isn’t it? I had to WORK to get it, and it wasn’t until I was on my knees – with a pain score of 7.5, precisely – that the nurses would hand it over. And you try getting that shit from a chemist, even with a legitimate prescription. Paul took one look at the box and headed straight to eBay, to see what he could flog it for (JOKES, guys, JOKES). Yeah, it got rid of the pain, but it made me want to spew, and forget which day of the week it was. And I dunno if it was the morphine or the after effects of the general anaesthetic, but I was out of it for the rest of the week. Completely and utterly befuddled.
On Thursday I had to interview a very posh builder at a very posh house (for work; I don’t just visit construction sites and ask men in hard hats their views on mortar), and it was a shambles. I forgot to take a pen. A pen! I recorded the interview on my battered and broken iPhone 5, which Alice once smashed on our limestone pavers, and I never bothered to get fixed. My shoe kept falling off. No shit! I couldn’t keep my fucking shoe on my fucking foot. And also: I forgot how to talk. I’ve just transcribed the interview. It’s mortifying. The builder introduces himself and I’m, like, ‘uh’?. It was not my finest journalistic hour.
And here’s a thing: recovering from an operation - major or otherwise - is impossible with children around. They’re just so very NEEDY. Still wanting three square meals, despite my aching womb! I know, right!
Which brings us to the conclusion of the week. On Saturday we drove a stupidly long way to see a stupidly shit movie, during which Frankie ate a stupid amount of popcorn and cake. Which he (we) paid for on Saturday night. Four o’clock in the morning and I’m grabbing bath towels for him to spew into, but can’t find the light switch, so somehow end up flinging the popcorn-chunky sick around our bedroom instead. So we strip the bed, and the toddler, and try to sleep on the electric blanket, until at 5 o’clock his bottom explodes - QUITE LITERALLY, IN NO WAY FIGURATIVELY - and we’re left standing, staring, open-mouthed at our bed - and small child - covered in shit. COVERED in shit. My first thought? If I ignore this, it will go away, right? Wrong.
That, my friends, was Father’s Day. I can’t say it was the Father’s Day of Paul’s dreams. I tried to turn the day around with pork pie, but an unusual school mum dressed as a German fräulein gatecrashed our picnic, so we packed up and went home, whereupon Frankie spewed explosively (strawberries) all over my favourite rug. Again, we just stood, open-mouthed, and wondered what would happen if we walked away and left him to it. Again, we didn’t, and the week concluded with me standing in the garden, hosing spewed-up strawberries off my rug, while Paul hosed spewed-up strawberries off his son. Happy Father’s Day, daddy!