Monthly Archives: April 2010

Papa Don’t Preach

Just like his mummy, Devilboy is obsessed with babies.  

Due to several rather obviously protruding bellies amongst the mothers at childcare, there appears to have been extensive discussion of the topic. By discussion (given it occurred between a smallish group of two to three year olds)I mean pointing and gesticulating and uttering the odd comprehensible word in the general vicinity of his friend’s fecund families.

It would appear that Devilboy is now quite aware that babies spend a considerable amount of time hanging about in their mummy’s belly before they are born, but clearly his understanding of the “birds and bees” pretty much starts and finishes with that.

In fact, he appears to be convinced that most women are permanently with child, regardless of any obvious visual evidence. This has caused much embarrassment of late as he has announced, with great confidence to both sets of excitable grandparents, that “Mummy has a baby in her tummy” 

Clearly, to anyone who has read even a singular post in this blog, I do not… and disappointing said grandparents with the actual facts was a little upsetting given our ongoing ineptitude in the fecundity department. 

It has also caused some gender confusion as today he insisted that a guy with a quite splendid beer gut in our local convenience store was, in fact, a girl. Thinking that a quick explanation that the gentleman in question was most definitely a man would suffice was a clear mistake, as Devilboy shouted loudly, “No man, mummy! That girl has a baby in tummy!” 

 Apologising swiftly to the shocked pregnant man I fled, planning never to return to that particular establishment, even if it means driving several suburbs out of my way to buy bread and milk. 

 But today’s embarrasment paled into insignificance compared to another of Devilboy’s bold announcements. 

At the recent birthday party of a two year old friend, who for the sake of anonymity we will call Jenny, Devilboy declared that she too had a baby in her tummy. At the ripe old age of two? Floozy! 

The comment drew a few uncomfortbale  giggles and a hasty explanation from his embarassed mummy that Jenny most certainly didn’t have a baby in her tummy. But the following dialogue most certainly did have people rising eyebrows…

“Jenny DO have baby in her tummy” declared Devilboy with utter conviction. 

“Well I wonder how it got there?” questioned Jennifer’s daddy, laughingly trying to deflect the conversation.

“My put it there!” explained Devilboy earnestly.

“Yeah!” boomed Jenny’s voice through the ensuing silence (though in all honesty, most probably in reply to an entirely different conversation stream).

“!” said everyone else. 

Half expecting little Jennny to start gyrating about singing “Papa I know you’re going to be upset” with a troupe of two year old backing dancers … I tried digging a hole in the ground to bury myself in. Realising I was standing on concrete and that this wouldn’t be an easy or quick option, I instead apologised to the parents for my mouthy son’s alleged impregnation of their daughter. 

The party was soon back on track with age appropriate playing and squealing and eating of cake but I found myself ostracised by some of the parents as they had quickly split into two very definite camps. Those who thought Devilboy’s bold comments were “kind of creepy” and glared at me like I was some kind of parental pariah (which surprised me as it just seemed like one of those innocent ‘out of the mouths of babes’ moments to me)… and those naughtier mummy’s and daddy’s who were still pissing themselves laughing about it an hour later. 

So was it creepy or was it just piss funny? ‘Cos I’m still laughing  now…

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Holey Arteries Batman

My failure as an embryonic incubator has Dr. Sickboy scratching his head. With above average quality embryos for my age and a uterus now happily devoid of bloody tyrants he says that medically there is no reason why my little blast’s aren’t sticking. So, to make himself seem appropriately doctorly and useful and important, he decided it was time for more tests.

“More?” I questioned. “What more could there possibly be left to test? Had someone come up with a test that could tell if my uterus had a teflon coating? 

“Oh yes” said the bloodthirsty Dr Sickboy gleefully, knowing he had found yet more reasons to poke holes in my sad and sorry veins. “There are many more confusingly vague tests that we can do, all unpronounceable, all very important and all costing lots of money. In fact there are dozens of the fuckers.”

These may not have been his exact words but you get the drift.

This morning we headed off to the local bloodletting centre where Devilboy, or Batman as he insisted on being addressed today, cleverly learned to count to sixteen as that was the number of tubes that were duly filled with my blood for the laboratory’s “very important” tests. Sixteen! The sight of that many empty test tubes was enough to make my head spin before the first drop was taken. I mean, how the hell were they going to take that much blood in one go I wondered? Were they going straight for an artery?

Thankfully not.

What seemed like several years later, I was sent home drained, quite literally, with approximately 3 millilitres of red fluid left in my body and where the rest of my day was spent weakly gawping at my bruised and needle marked arms and pondering how long it would be until some well meaning Samaritan staged an intervention… or some desperate smackhead hit me up for a fix.

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