At least he will be in nine months time. We've been given a bag of cast-offs from this little chap, which is handy as he's generally at the cutting edge of fashion, and wearing clothes that cost more than my car. That leather jacket was amongst them, but sadly it's for age 12-18 months, so Toby's still got a bit of growing up to do. By next autumn though, he'll be the coolest dude in the playgroup.
As for our low-budget princess, she returned home this morning, armed with about twenty paintings, some home-made jewellery, a cuddly cat and a Christmas tree. Lisa had turned to the painkillers within half an hour of her arrival, but other than that, it was good to have her back. She had a swimming lesson this afternoon, so she was on a tight schedule, but fortunately she managed to find time to stuff a few cuddly toys into a stockpot before she left, and leave it on the kitchen floor. It was like a scene from 'Fatal Attraction'.
So while Amelie splashed about in the pool, I spent the afternoon swimming in Toby's vomit, as I attempted to persuade him to keep down some defrosted breast milk. It's a good job I'd taken off the leather jacket, otherwise we'd have had one heck of a dry-cleaning bill.
When Lisa and Amelie returned, I gave Am a bath, Lisa soothed Toby, then I cooked a load of food that Amelie flatly refused to eat, and cleared up the bottle of bubble mixture that she'd managed to pour down the bedroom mirror and onto Lisa's haircare products. That left us free to play a quick game of Supercow, have a brief argument in the bathroom, and do a mountain of washing up. Not including the stockpot, which was still full of cuddlies. By that time we were all pretty much ready for bed. And a holiday. Preferably without the kids.
Amidst all of that chaos, however, we did have one moment of stunned silence. I was looking at the photos of Toby, and I made a joke about him getting a tattoo to go with his leathers. Amelie overheard, and immediately said "Grandad's got some tattoos". I've never been more shocked in my life. And judging by her expression, neither has Lisa. We both turned to Amelie in unison, and said "HAS HE???"
She replied "Yes. He's got lots".
Fortunately, just as we were thinking my Dad must be going through a mid-life crisis, thirty years late, Amelie added that he keeps them in a box, and applies them with water and a flannel. But only if she's been good. Which not only explains my Dad's sudden interest in body art, but also why Amelie hasn't got one.
6 comments:
Yes, apparently they ARE called tattoos - though I would have referred to them as transfers!!
They were called "transfers" when you were young! But with the passing of the years, times change - and so do we (more wrinkly!)
They were called "transfers" when you were young! But with the passing of the years, times change - and so do we (more wrinkly!)
My youngest grandchild has a biker jacket too, a cast-off from his mother's boss's son. He looks super-cool in it. We should compare mini-Fonzes.
Zoe, we still have every intention of coming to see you. You've really lucked out.
Zoe, we still have every intention of coming to see you. You've really lucked out.
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