Rukai hosted his first Fourth of July barbecue last week. Unfortunately his hosting skills consisted of a couple good gurgles and, natch, the requirement to be fed just as the grill was fully lit and ready to rock and roll. So as he slurped away, his friends' mums magnificently jumped to action and got the food cooked for the lot of us. While I used the spoken word to convey gratitude for their help, he let off a scream and a fart which I'm sure meant 'thank you so much, oh mummies of my friends, you are all so awesome and saved the day!' Then too, maybe it was just 'hey, are you gonna eat all those s'mores?! I may not have teeth but those marshmallows sure look gummable!'
The weather held, the nappies held, his temper held, he didn't need to be held. I'd rate that a huge success. Plus I got 13-1/2 hours of sleep out of him that night. If that's the result of a big dose of fresh air, I vote we follow up with a Bastille Day picnic.
I think the Wimbledon final was on TV yesterday. I say I think because I could only manage to watch 30 second spurts of it while engaging with Rukai in a rowdy conversation consisting of uhh-AAAHH!-mmnnngggg-AAAH-OOOO!!! and other such infant gems. I'm not sure who he was rooting for but he passed out at the end of the match so he must've found it exciting.
This is one thing I don't recall any warning about pre-pregnancy: you will never be able to watch a live sporting event in its entirety ever - EVER - again. Following that challenging attempt, I am now convinced that the inventor of Sky plus and the rest of those digital TV record-and-playback mechanisms was surely in possession of one very feisty infant. So I have resigned myself to investing in an appropriate digital TV receiver and will hereafter completely avoid the news if I ever want to be surprised by sport again.
Until yesterday I was really excited about the prospect of watching as much of the Olympics as I want during my maternity leave but I am now entirely conviced Rukai will save his biggest exploding-up-the-back-shit to occur just as the last two pixie-like powerhouses are flinging themselves hither and yon in the battle to take home the coveted gymnastics floor exercise gold medal.
And speaking yet again of shit, since you just cannot help it while being in charge of an infant...
(If you tire of the subject, look away now and by all means, be sure not to procreate.)
I've heard of throwing a ball, throwing a fit and throwing your voice, but throwing your shit? Yes, he managed to do a gargantuan poop the other day that completely missed the back side of the nappy but appeared up the front. This is a new and very surreal trick that makes me want to call up Ringling Brothers and ask if they have any openings, because this life with young son is now officially well and truly a circus. I'm ready for our intro:
'Now introducing Rukai the Amazing Crapshooter and his mother, the Bearded Lady!'
Unfortunately, they'll have to hand out ponchos and goggles to the front three rows which will significantly undercut our profit.
As those tooth nubs continue to do the 'coming-to-the-surface-jig' I have officially shoved aside 'Crusty BooBoo' in favor of his latest nickname, Mr. Dribbles. I honestly do not know where all the saliva comes from. It's like a bad day at the dentist and I'm probably going to have to buy one of those suction jobbers and affix it to him with duct tape if this keeps up. Either that or dangle him from a jungle gym over a stack of muslins to catch the runoff.
Today is officially random cranky ass day. After a half day of general malaise and whining (and Rukai's downright miserable too) I've decided to petition the government for an extra bank holiday, not to celebrate but to recover. Thank god for my left arm and shoulder which seem, for now, a very effective sleeping potion.
Guess I best I go watch some sports while I can.