Sunday is my lie in day. I deserve a day off from the 5:30/6:00 am routine of milk feeding and changing my toddler. This suggestion came from my hubby who has been efficiently handling this for quite a few weekends now. When I do come downstairs, bright eyed and bushy tailed at 9am our open plan kitchen is in a mess. Toys, random pieces of food, all kitchen cans and containers are strewn all over. I ignore all of it benignly to focus on getting my cuppa chai and porridge, the problems of the world can wait till after breakfast.
While my porridge is being microwaved, the baby is pulling at my leg. I have an awww moment. She missed me. As I pick her up to hug her, a stink crushes my nostrils almost (mind you – almost, as I’m a pro now) killing my appetite. I look around for hubby and he is no where to be seen. I resign myself to changing her poo filled nappy. After her bum is clean as a whistle, hubby comes dashing from a corner of the house carrying a container of water and some cotton wool.
‘I got this!’ He announces like a super hero all set to rid the world of Thanos single handedly.
‘It’s done.’ I tell him, with only a hint of resentment in my tone. And then because he has been a gem managing her while keeping her and himself alive all morning I peck him on the cheek. He beams.
In the middle of my first bite of porridge, while I am nestled on the sofa catching up on some news, hubby rushes in, a sheepish smile gracing his adorable face. Yes, it’s adorable when I am rested. ‘Need to go toilet.’ He says placing her on the sofa next to me.
Baby sensing fishy business about to unfold, starts bawling, not putting up with being dumped unceremoniously.
‘Ok! Ok! I’m not going anywhere!’ He sits beside her, gooey eyed how his baby is so attached to him.
‘You need to stay for a bit and then slide away unnoticed…’ like one of those detectives in crime shows he regularly watches. He nods in understanding. I feel he would have this sliding away routine down pretty well as he’s seen it only a thousand times. So when baby’s back is turned on the sofa, I give him a nod. Run for it. He gets up and dashes.
Now, this is just my partial opinion but there couldn’t be a more awkward dash in the history of dashes. Far from the quite sleuth like getaway, he gets up running like wolves are at his heels. His foot gets caught in the leg of the side table, slamming loudly against it, the porridge falls to the floor, my tea falls to the floor and the side table topples over. He looks at the mess and then at us frozen mid run. Both baby and I look at him with amused incredulity like watching a unicorn turning into a hippo. He takes one tentative step towards the door and predictably baby starts crying with a look like ‘you guys left me no choice’.
Needles to say, ‘Operation stealthy exit’ is a massive failure folks.