We try not to have ice-cream in the house. For one it’s empty carbs. For two it can (and does) give me violent stomach pain. Can being the operative word, for even though the incidences of ice-cream related pain are frequent, I’d say more than one in time in two, the odds are enough in my favour (not really) that it won’t happen!
The other day theWife and theBoy, who is four and a bit, were travelling through the supermarket. I had asked for ice-cream but theWife wisely went for a small-sized tub, just two-litres, so as to prevent probable binging by me. She let theBoy choose the tub since he’s now aware of ice-cream and wants to take part in its consumption.
There’s three of us in the Indomitable Trio so he selected a three-flavoured affair; vanilla, chocolate, and triple chocolate (with fudge pieces).
He had a little bit of the vanilla, which he declared was ‘his part of it’. By the next day the ice-cream was gone, fully consumed between myself and theWife.
Last night, after dinner, theBoy requested ice-cream. theWife told him that we had eaten all of it. ‘But the vanilla was my part! You ate my part!’
How funny that five years ago he didn’t even exist as a person. I mean he was sort of there, in the form of an egg in theWife, but here he is, just five years on, complaining about us honking his share of the ice-cream.
And you know what … it’s fair enough that he was pissed off.
Next he’ll be going all group-house and labelling all the contents in the fridge; ‘That’s my apple-juice, my custards, my cheese-sticks...’
Once upon a time the Boston Market chain intruded into the restaurant landscape that is NSW. It is a slightly higher cut of the jib to standard fare. Indeed the wiki for Boston Market claims it is fast casual service; a type of restaurant that does not offer full table service, but promises a higher quality of food and atmosphere than a fast food restaurant.
The Boston Market basically sold delish roast-type meals, along with cornbread, heavenly mashed potato, and gravy. Indeed with the potato and gravy they would serve the mash in a sculpted pile with a depression in the middle of the pile. In the depression, looking like a brown lagoon, would rest the gravy.
The Boston Market lads moved into the fast-food (slash) petrol station complex between Sydney and Newcastle, which is about 100 kays north of Sydney. Once we’d had the Boston goodness we could not go back to normal on-the-road-fare. We would save our hunger for that particular complex, typically being ravenous by the time we made it to the facility. Then chow into the roast goodness with their artfully presented potato mound with accompanying gravy loch.
Alas the Boston Market presence did not last long and eventually their owners, now McDonald’s, closed up their operations in Australia.
The other day theBoy was up before theWife. He demanded Humpty and Stumpty. theWife was trying to sleep off the bed invasion that had occurred at 3 am when theBoy came in having wet the bed. She stripped away the bed clothes and piled them in the corridor next to the laundry door.
He ran down the corridor to the end room where I was abed to demand stories, yelled, then fell over. ‘I slipped, daddy. On water!’
I came out to look and turned on the corridor light.
It wasn’t water. It was piss. Cat piss in fact. Only they hadn’t pissed on the floor. They’d pissed in the bed clothes. So much piss that it was pooled, in a depression within the bed clothes, just like the gravy loch in a Boston Market potato mound, a slight trickle running out of the loch, down the bed clothes, and onto the floor.
Gagging at the sight of the piss loch, and in fact there were two of them, I wadded up some toilet paper and threw them in the piss lochs to soak up the pools of cat piss. When theWife eventually arose I told her what I’d done lest she just it all in the wash without withdrawing the piss-soaked toilet tissue.
Later she asked what I’d done for theBoy. Had I cleaned him after his slipped-in-piss incident? I had not. It hadn’t even had crossed my mind to do it.
… Daddy cleanliness fail …