You didn't stab anyone this week, Keith. Well fucking done.
Friday
When I got home from Sydney at around teatime on Wednesday, Frankie (6) had a wobbly tooth. At bedtime, the tooth was gone. Like, gone. Vanished. Devastated, he left this note for the Tooth Fairy:
“To Tooth Fairy, when my dad just notist that I have a lost tooth and I miht of swalowed it please find it from Frankie.”
The Tooth Fairy – to give her her dues – did in fact find the tooth (she didn’t), and left $5 and a note by Frankie’s bedside. Her note read:
“Dear Frankie, I found your tooth! It was lovely and clean. Keep brushing! Love from The Tooth Fairy.” She’s a good egg, that Tooth Fairy.
Frankie got a merit certificate today. I fucking love merit certificates. Ben’s old primary school stopped giving them out, because they said that merit certificates made the dumb kids feel dumb, or some shit. Fuck that school. I like when it gets to the end of the year and the teachers are forced to give out certificates to the kids who least deserve them, and they have to come up with legitimate reasons for the certificates, like: “Congratulations to Keith, for making some good choices.” Which can basically be interpreted as: “You didn’t stab anyone this week Keith. Well fucking done.”
Ben has just experienced heartbreak for the first time. It is HARD to know what to say. I went with: “Girls can be weird,” which is ultimately not that helpful. I asked Paul to talk to Ben, but Paul reckons every time he tries to sound like a mature adult offering fatherly advice he just sounds like Jay’s dad from The Inbetweeners, talking about fingering.
Saturday
The very first thing that Frankie said when he woke up this morning – before he’d even opened his eyes properly – was: “Do you want to know the WORST swearword?” And I was, like, yeah, go on then. And he goes, “It’s BAST-something but I can’t say it because it’s the WORST swearword.” “Oh yeah, who taught you that then?” “That guy,” Frankie replied, gesturing at Paul, his father. “The big guy. AND THAT IS WHY I LOVE HIM.”
Paul wore tights to F45 this (cold) morning. You can call them leggings, but I’m gonna call them what they are: tights. I was, like, “THIS CANNOT HAPPEN,” and Paul did his sad face – the one that makes you feel like you’ve kicked a three-legged puppy – and goes, “Okay, I’ll just have a sore knee then,” which made me feel all bad and shit, so I didn’t take the piss out of him anymore. Except when we turned up to F45, I said to the manager – “HAVE YOU NOTICED THAT PAUL IS BOTH WEARING TIGHTS AND CARRYING A PINK GIRL’S DRINK BOTTLE?” and I left it at that, ‘cos a man has his dignity. Paul says that the men of Sydney and Melbourne ALL wear tights to F45, but I’m not so sure.
Frankie says he’s saving his pennies to buy a Nintendo Switch. And if he can’t afford a Nintendo Switch he’ll buy an X-Box. And if he can’t afford an X-Box he’ll buy a murder knife. I asked him how a murder knife differs from a normal knife and he rolled his eyes and said, “It’s sharper, obviously.”
When Frankie cut into his poached egg at the animal farm café today, he was rewarded with soft, running, yellow yolk (as is right and proper). “I have hit the JACKPOT,” he announced.
In the car on the way to the animal farm, Frankie (6) goes to Ben (12) – out of nowhere – “If you were a rockstar, you’d be Elvis – eating hamburgers on the toilet.”
Alice (4) is hand-writing personalised birthday invitations for every single person in her fucking class, and the rest. She says that everyone is her best fwend, therefore everyone needs personalised, hand-written invitations. This shit could take a while.
Sunday
In June 2017 – so a WHOLE YEAR AGO – a friend of Paul’s announced that he had weeks to live. It wasn’t a close friend of Paul’s, but a friend nonetheless, so when he (the dying fellow, not Paul) asked for donations to complete his bucket list, Paul was the first to offer up our hard-earned dollars. I asked what exactly was on this fellow’s bucket list, but it wasn’t made clear. Paul said that even if this fellow wanted to spend our money on crack and hookers that was entirely reasonable, given that the fellow only had weeks to live. I said yeah, okay. Well, let me tell you: this fellow is still alive. And kicking. So my question to you is: when is reasonable to ask for a refund?
Dying fellow’s bucket list reminds me of this woman at Paul’s old work, who used to raffle off meat trays and fish crates to raise money … to bring her family out on holiday from New Zealand. Paul gave her so much money, because he’s Paul, and he couldn’t say no, despite the fact that he never actually saw a meat tray OR a fish crate OR, indeed, this woman’s family. Paul is a sucker.
I had a moment of proper fucking contentment on the beach today. The sun was warm and the kids were splashing and the coffee was good and the husband was handsome and I acknowledged that there was nowhere I’d rather be, nothing I’d rather be doing and no one I’d rather be doing it with. And then we got home and Ben had tried to cook croissants in the toaster and the kitchen was wrecked and I lost my shit, so who’s contented now, eh?