While the following stories are basically true, allowing for a moderate degree of poetic license, all the names have been changed to protect the guilty.
Oh, okay. Allow for a large degree of poetic license.
Graeme
I think my family hates me.
Colin, my eldest boy, received a new bike for his fifth birthday. Up until then, he had been riding a tiny little bike with training wheels. This new bike was twice the size – the salesman said he’d be able to grow into it. It also didn’t have training wheels, as my wife and I felt that it was time for him to learn to ride without them. That also allowed us to hand the smaller bike down to Andrew, Colin’s three-year-old younger brother.
Initially, it was moderately successful. The boys, with the candour that is so prevalent at that age, named the new bike, “The Falling Down Bike,” due to the number of crashes that Colin managed to achieve.
It was after one particularly bad fall that the new bike was relegated to sitting on the veranda. Colin wasn’t hurt seriously, but he had taken a very nasty fright. Whenever he was asked after that, he opted to ride his scooter instead.
All of this changed after his sixth birthday. Now that he was a school kid, outside influences were changing him. He decided he wanted a motorbike.
After looking at the prices for a motorbike, armour plating for the rider, a helmet that would do an astronaut proud, and leathers in an appropriate fashion style, and then staring at a bank balance that any third-world country deeply in debt would be happy to see, but anyone with a mortgage would cringe at, defensive actions were called for:
Colin was informed that he couldn’t have a motorbike until he learnt to ride his push-bike.
This resulted in sudden change of heart. The bike that had been masquerading as a garden ornament for twelve months was retrieved. In one solid two-week period of riding every day, often more than once, Colin learnt to ride his bike. In honour of this the boys renamed the bike. It was now “The Easy-Peasy Bike.”
Dreading the repeated request for a motorbike, I prepared additional requirements he’d have to meet. We live at the end of a long driveway, most of which is uphill. I was ready to tell him that he’d have to be able to ride up that hill before he could have a motorbike. As his current bike didn’t have gears, I was confident that this would give me at least a year’s grace.
I was surprised when, instead of the anticipated request, Colin remarked that he wanted to go riding along the road with his daddy. I felt this was so cute, I passed it on to his mum, my wife, Janine
This was a major mistake.
She decided that this was an excellent idea. She’d been wondering what to get me for my birthday, and now that problem was solved: she’d get me a bike.
Now, she knows what my bike riding skills are like. I never learnt to ride when I was young. I can sit on a bike and do a credible job, but she was there the last time we went riding. It was up at Falls Creek during one summer before we had children. We had hired bikes for the day. Everything had gone well until she decided to ride along the narrow trail next to an aqueduct – a stream of water that ran down to the Rocky Valley dam. Being a skilled rider, she was pedalling slowly, taking in the scenery.
Being an unskilled rider, I wasn’t used to riding that slowly. The bike wandered from side to side of the narrow track until I lost control and ended up in the water. Janine thought this was hilarious. In the ten years since, I haven’t been on a bike.
This was my first inkling that she might not like me.
After all, if she really loved me, she wouldn’t put me through the torture of learning to ride a bike. Especially in front of my six-year-old son, who is already a better rider than me.
Paying no attention to my pained expression, she rang her parents to check if they’d bought me a present yet, and if they hadn’t, to suggest that they give her some money towards the bike instead.
That’s when I learnt that the in-laws may not like me, either.
My father-in-law had an old mountain bike that was still in good condition. My brother-in-law had bought it at a sale several years previously, but it hadn’t had a lot of use. They offered to give me that bike for my birthday present.
So, off to the in-laws it was, to see this instrument of torture that I might be given as a present.
The bike was in quite good condition. Colin and Andrew were very excited, and looked forward to seeing it in action. Trying to avoid the inevitable, I pointed out that my only riding helmet, dating back to the time when I was learning to ride a horse, was back at home, and it wasn’t wearable anyway. It has been several years since I last rode, and in the meantime some enterprising bird had decided to built a nest inside it. It had been just the right size. She had even laid a number of eggs, last time we checked.
My plans for delay were thwarted, however, when the in-laws produced a perfectly good, if slightly old, riding helmet. So, armed with a new bike and helmet, we headed off home.
This is where I learnt how cruel Janine could be. With Colin ready to ride rings around me, and Andrew gleefully riding around on his miniature bike with training wheels, Janine got out the video camera to capture for posterity my first bike ride in more than a decade – knowing full well that the last bike ride I’d taken had ended up with me soaking wet.
I decided that this was really a nefarious plan to knock me off. By videoing me, she had the evidence that would indicate it was only an accident, and if I didn’t crash, the heart-attack from over-exertion would finish me.
That was my other concern, and one that I knew I couldn’t raise. I had been complaining for months about being overweight and unfit, and that I needed to start doing some regular exercise again. Bike riding was not one of the things I’d been thinking of. If I tried to say anything, I knew Janine would just bat her eyelids at me and comment that not only was this good exercise for me, but it was also a good father/son bonding thing.
I managed to get through the next thirty minutes without losing too much pride. Janine chuckled several times as I found myself in the middle of a bush, or stopping to inspect a tree trunk at close range, but I didn’t really crash – at least by my definition.
Being passed by a six-year-old, pedalling flat out, augers well for the Australian Olympic cycling team in the future, but it does nothing to help the self-esteem of an overweight forty-one-year-old. There were things called gears on my bike that should have allowed me to correct that, but each time I tried to use them, I lost concentration on what I was doing and crashed. That wasn’t helping, either. Despite all the drama, I was smiling when I finished.
That’s when I learnt my sons may not like me. Either that or they have developed a cruel streak.
“Daddy, let’s go to the concrete!”
Now, “the concrete” is their name for the car park of the local high school. That is where we used to take Colin when he was learning to ride “The Falling Down Bike”. It is also the scene of the crash that caused an almost twelve-month break in that bike being ridden.
Janine, who I was beginning to suspect truly did want to knock me off, though this was a wonderful idea. So, after a short break, during which I tried to relearn how to breath and walk again, we drove down to the school.
Calmly announcing that she thought we should only stay for an hour, Janine settled back into the car to read a magazine. I was flabbergasted. An entire hour of riding? It would be either a fatal crash, or a heart-attack that finished me off, that was sure. At least my life insurance was paid up.
Colin proceeded to ride rings around me, literally.
Gritting my teeth, I made it through that hour. The “fun” was brought to a sudden stop when Colin decided that Daddy was going too slow and crashed into me. At least, that’s what I thought he was doing. There was the faint suspicion that Janine had bribed him to hit me so she could claim the insurance. Luckily for me, Colin hadn’t worked out that not only am I twice his height, I’m also more than four times heavier than him.
So, I carried one tearful boy back to the car. Andrew, the abnormal four-year-old that he is, immediately became upset. Not only was I not carrying him, but I’d left our bikes behind. This was distressing him. I had to take a minute to explain that I’d be back to get the bikes, before I was allowed to carry Colin the rest of the way back to his mum.
I thought that was the end of the bike incident, but I hadn’t allowed for the rebound ability of your typical six-year-old. As soon as we were back home, Colin was pestering me to go riding with him again.
Using the not-unreasonable excuse that I had to start cooking dinner, I managed to beg my way out of inflicting any more injuries on myself. My bum was already numb from the instrument of cruelty known as a bike seat.
The next morning, as I clambered stiffly out of bed, I remember thinking that a motorbike isn’t that unreasonable a piece of equipment – it doesn’t need pedalling. We don’t really need to eat for the next couple of months….
I have just completed one of the most arduous, torturous, frustrating and challenging tasks known to man:
Mother’s Day with a four- and six-year-old.
The challenge started on the day before. With my usual flair for planning things well in advance, I waited until the Saturday morning to have a discussion with Andrew. Colin had already bought a Mother’s Day present at school, as well as making something in his class. Andrew, naturally enough, didn’t have anything to give his mum.
So, while Janine was out doing the weekly shopping, I sat down with Andrew and informed him we had to get Mum something for Mother’s Day.
“I want to get her a train engine,” he announced.
Now, because of a previous discussion with my youngest son, I knew exactly what he meant. The conversation in question had been during the phase when we were trying to toilet train him. After numerous attempts and various methods, we were at the “bribe” stage.
“If you go to the toilet properly for a whole week, we’ll get you a new train engine for your train track,” I told him.
Showing the skills that would make a top-class union negotiator proud, he immediately fired back a counter-proposal:
“Daddy, how about you go the toilet properly for a week, then you get the train and you share it with me?”
While I didn’t doubt that I’d be able to complete the suggested task successfully, it really didn’t meet the over-all objective of getting Andrew toilet trained. I did, however, fire an email off to the Federal Trade Minister in Canberra and offered my son’s services in trade negotiations, but so far I’ve had no response. I’m sure the Free Trade Agreement with the USA would have turned out more to Australia’s advantage if they’d taken up my offer.
So, when Andrew suggested getting Janine a train engine for Mother’s Day, I suspected he really just wanted another one for himself. I decided to test this theory:
“I don’t think Mummy would like a train engine. How about we get her some chocolates, instead?”
“But I don’t like chocolate!” he whined.
Now this was a complete lie but, relative to a new train engine, I could accept it as being the truth. Rather than discussing it at that time, I elected to wait until we were actually at the shops before trying to get him to choose a suitable present.
Now Saturday mornings is when the boys have their swimming lessons. The only chance we’d have to do any shopping would be if we left early, and bought any present before swimming. This was the first of my challenges for the day. Andrew, for reasons known only to himself, likes to get up soon after 7am. Colin, who I believe is in training to be a teenager or university student, likes to sleep in for as long as possible.
We managed to get both of them up, feed them breakfast – a task that often needed more effort from the parents than would normally be required – and out the door in time to do some shopping before the swimming lesson.
Now, while all of this was going on, I struggled to think of what to get Janine. After all, when you have someone who already owns a pair of Venus Flytraps, what more do they really need? Okay, technically one of those plants belongs to Colin, but as Janine is the one who swats the flies and feeds them to the plants, she has some stake in being able to say they are hers.
My plan was that we’d park at the swimming centre, wander over the road to the shops, leave Janine at the coffee shop, while I took the two boys and bought a present.
Problem number one: the coffee shop was closed.
Why? I had no idea. The notice on the front door said that it was supposed to have opened thirty minutes before we arrive, but the door was firmly shut.
Not wanting to fall at the first hurdle, I quickly came up with another plan. Sending Janine off with Andrew to the toilet, I took Colin to the newsagent and got him to pick a Mother’s Day card. This was deceptively easy. In hindsight, it was just a way of lulling me into a false sense of security.
When Andrew came back, running ahead of Janine, I grabbed the opportunity to show him a card and ask him if he’d like to give this one to his mum. He just nodded – he’d seen the toy collection and had more important things to think about.
So far, so good.
After purchasing the cards, and hiding them away so Janine didn’t see them, I left Colin to entertain my wife, and took Andrew into the supermarket with me.
“Come on,” I told my four-year-old son. “We’ll have to get Mummy some chocolates.”
I had decided that chocolates were a simple, though not particularly imaginative, present. With less than twenty-four hours until Mother’s Day, coming up with a better idea was beyond me.
Scanning the store signs, I found the aisle with the chocolates. It was also the aisle with the breakfast foods.
“Daddy,” Andrew said excitedly, “I’ve found a box of chocolates!”
I looked at what he was pointing to.
“Andrew, while I’m sure Mummy would love that, I think we can find something better for her than a box of chocolate-flavoured breakfast cereal.”
“Okay, Daddy,” he shrugged. “You tell me when to stop.”
With that we headed down the aisle until we came to the boxes of chocolates.
“Time to stop,” I told him.
“Look, cars!” he said, looking on the opposite side to where the target presents were located.
“No, Andrew, we are not getting you any more cars,” I said patiently. “We’re supposed to be getting something for Mummy, remember?”
“An ambulance, a bus, a fire engine, and... what’s that, Daddy?” he asked, ignoring what I’d just said.
“It’s a police car,” I replied, as I gently turned him around and pointed him towards the boxes of chocolates. “Would you like to pick one of these for Mummy?”
I was ready to pick one myself – Janine would never know who really selected it – but Andrew came through with flying colours: he picked the nearest box.
Before he could be distracted by any other offerings being presented, I whisked him off to the checkout area. There was a tense moment while Andrew was eyeing off a six-pack of cinnamon donuts, but I managed to ease him past them without a request to purchase anything.
Safely out of the supermarket, I collected Janine and Colin and we headed off to complete our normal Saturday morning schedule.
Despite the momentary feelings of angst when Andrew didn’t seem to be treating the present buying seriously, I felt I’d overcome all obstacles and was ready to enjoy the rest of my day.
Sadly, I was to learn otherwise.
Colin proceeded to pester me all afternoon about going to “The Concrete” so he could ride his bike. Eventually, with much hesitation as I knew he’d be asking me to ride with him, we headed off. By that stage, it was late afternoon, so we kept it short. I didn’t mind riding too much that day, though my bum was still sore from the week before. Janine had had the bike serviced during the week and I could feel the difference.
After about forty minutes of riding, I pulled up next to the car and quietly agreed with Janine that we’d finish in ten minutes. Just then, Colin and Andrew rode up.
“Okay, guys. Ten more minutes,” Janine announced.
“How about twelve?” countered our experienced four-year-old negotiator.
I smiled. He didn’t know how long ten minutes were, let alone twelve. He just knew which was the bigger number.
“Okay, twelve minutes,” I agreed.
“How about a thousand?” Andrew continued, clearly on the basis that if I’d agreed to twelve minutes so quickly I might be squeezed for some more.
He lost on that one. Which just proves that even experienced wheelers-and-dealers can’t always win.
We went home soon afterwards, and I started to get dinner ready. As it was just a case of reheating the leftovers from the night before, plus some chips and fish-fingers for the boys, this wasn’t an arduous task.
It was at the end of dinner that I learnt that my job was not over.
“Colin, stay at the table until everyone has finished eating,” Janine said when Colin tried to leave.
“But I have to go! I need to wrap the presents for tomorrow!” he replied, starting to get distressed.
I had completely forgotten about the gifts he’d brought home from school. Somehow, I’d assumed that they would already be wrapped.
The next thirty minutes was an exercise in parental torture. That’s the kids torturing a parent, not the other way round.
Colin had written on his card for his mum earlier in the day, so while I started wrapping presents, I gave Andrew his card and suggested he draw on it. Retrieving the box of pencils, crayons and textas, he happily sat down to start on his masterpiece.
Meanwhile, I started the present wrapping saga. I knew from earlier conversations that Colin had three presents – one for his mum, and one for each of his grandmothers.
“Now, who is this one for?” I asked him.
“Nanny,” he replied confidently.
I gave him a card. “Here, why don’t you write on the card while I wrap the present?” I suggested, reasonably in my opinion. I should’ve known better.
Just as I was finishing wrapping the first present, I got hit from both sides.
“Daddy! This one isn’t working!” Andrew said, shoving a texta in my face.
“Try another one, then, Andrew,” I replied, trying to keep my frustration from my voice.
“Daddy, what goes next?” Colin asked me, showing me a lovely “m” he’d written on the card.
“I thought this card was for Nanny,” I said. “Nanny starts with a ‘N’.”
“Oh, no! What are we going to do?” Colin asked, starting to panic. “It’s all ruined!” he continued with a creative mixture of despair, frustration and anger. Even if he didn’t do it, you always heard the stamping of the foot that should accompany that phrase.
There is nothing more traumatic in life that finding out that you’ve written the wrong thing on a Mother’s Day card. Colin taught me that lesson.
“Calm down, Colin,” I said soothingly. “Here, write ‘Nanny’ on the other side of the card, and I’ll work out what to do.”
After writing “Nanny” on a scrap of paper for him to copy, Colin cheerfully started transcribing the word. In the meantime, I was panicking. What could I get him to write that would use that letter “m”? I thought about suggesting he just colour over it, but I knew I’d just get a disgusted look in return, with some sort of statement saying that it’ll still be ruined.
“Daddy! This one is broken,” Andrew stated, shoving a pencil between me and the present I was still trying to finish wrapping.
“The pencil sharpener is in the box,” I pointed out. “Why don’t you sharpen it?”
“Thanks, Daddy!”
This continued for longer than humanly possible. I saved the situation with the first card when I came up with the phrase, “Mummy’s Mum,” and I explained to Colin that’s who Nanny was. When he asked me to write that down, I decided to leave out the apostrophe – he was having enough trouble with writing the letters; punctuation wasn’t really that important.
Throughout all of this, Janine had been taking a bath. She told me afterwards that each time she heard the frustration in my voice, she just ducked her head under the water so she wouldn’t have to listen. I just replied, “I love you, too,” and kissed her lightly. Her turn will come: my birthday wasn’t that far away....
Later that evening, I found Colin and Janine in the lounge room.
“Daddy, can we give Mummy breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day?” Colin asked me.
I looked at Janine, who returned my gaze serenely. It didn’t take me too much time to work out who’d put that thought into Colin’s head. That had to be the most disgustingly selfish thing I’d ever witnessed. Now I wasn’t going to get the credit for suggesting it. My one chance to pretend that I knew what I was doing: ruined!
By the time the boys had had book reading and were off to bed, I was exhausted. This was only the day before Mother’s Day. I still had to co-ordinate two willing, but completely unskilled, helpers, and make my wife breakfast. I had already decided that I wouldn’t let the boys carry the cup of coffee – that was just asking for trouble.
The next morning, I got up early. After starting the coffee brewing, I went looking for the tray that Colin would use to take breakfast in to Janine. After searching for several minutes, I humbly returned to the bedroom.
“Do you know where the tray is?” I asked meekly.
“Try the lounge room,” came the sleepy reply.
With that subtle hint, I managed to get everything organised. Now all I had to do was wait for the boys to wake up.
Colin was up first. Given how excited he’d been the day before, that was not surprising. Andrew, the perverse boy that he is, decided to sleep in.
Deciding that Andrew didn’t really understand what was going on, and so wouldn’t be upset for missing out on some of the activities, I started getting breakfast ready. The coffee was already made – all I had to do was to make some toast. I had been dreading a request for bacon and eggs, but Janine had taken pity on me and ordered a really simple meal.
Colin was extremely proud as he took the tray into his mum, while I carried the coffee. After giving Janine the tray, and getting a big hug in return, Colin rushed back to his room to where he’d hidden her presents.
Janine was genuinely pleased and impressed with the presents she got. Colin had bought a small pen and pad at the school’s Mother’s Day stall, and had made a cardboard box in his class. Inside the box was a huge multi-coloured flower, made from tissue. He carefully explained that they’d run out of green, which is why the leaves of the flower were orange.
At this point, Andrew woke up. I carried him to the bed, where he gave his mum a big hug. I then gave him the present he’d picked the day before, so he could give it to Janine.
“Here you are,” he said as he handed it over.
I whispered to him, “What do you say?”
“Thanks!” he said cheerfully. We’d always insisted that our boys say please and thank-you, and the phrase “What do you say” now seems to produce an automatic response of “Thanks,” which is not quite what we’d intended.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” I prompted quietly.
“Happy Mother’s Day!” he echoed happily to his mum, who was just taking a bite of toast.
When she didn’t respond immediately, he chided her: “Say, Thank you,” he ordered.
“Thank you,” Janine responded with a smile, as soon as she’d swallowed what was in her mouth.
“Can I have some toast, too?” Colin asked.
“I’d like some milk,” Andrew chirped up.
I stared for a moment, before spinning around and heading back to the kitchen. Given the potential range of disasters that could’ve fallen on me, making breakfast in bed for everyone else was a pretty minor one. I decided I wouldn’t argue, just in case it got worse.
When I came back, I stood in the doorway for a moment. My wife and the two boys were all in bed. Wrapping paper, envelopes and cards were scattered everywhere. The box of chocolates was already almost empty. Everyone was having fun.
I caught Janine’s eye.
“Happy?” I asked her.
She nodded with a smile.
Indicating the two boys, I asked her, “Would you like another one?”
Laughing, she shook her head. “No, thanks.”
I’m glad. I love Colin and Andrew deeply, but I didn’t think I’d survive another one. The night before had been stressful enough with two. Three would’ve driven me insane. Well, more insane than I already am, at least.
“I don’t... wanna... die.”
The tortured words were forced out between ragged gasps as Andrew struggled for each breath.
Janine and I stared in horror at each other before returning our attention to the four-year-old on my lap. It was just after midnight, and Andrew was having what appeared to be a severe asthma attack. It had started maybe thirty minutes before.
After trying unsuccessfully to give him Ventolin while he was in his bed, I had picked him up and carried him out to the couch in the living room. I was hoping that I could soothe him enough that he wouldn’t resist having the mask put over his face. That was when he forced out the words that had horrified my wife and I. Our son thought he was dying.
It wasn’t as if I couldn’t appreciate why he was struggling. After all, if you have having trouble getting enough air into your lungs, the last thing you want is to have something put over your nose and mouth. It had been too long since his last asthma attack – he’d forgotten that the face mask and spacer contraption would help us administer the medicine that would help him.
Eventually, by holding his arms against his body, and restraining his head, we managed to give him some Ventolin. It made some difference, I thought, but his breathing was still tortured, as his whole body would heave with the struggle to get enough air into his chest.
“Should we call an ambulance?” Janine asked me, concerned for our youngest son.
“What’s his asthma plan say?”
While I cradled Andrew in my arms, rocking gently to try to soothe him, she hunted down that piece of paper we’d been given when Andrew had been first diagnosed as asthmatic.
Together, we checked it out.
“It says if he needs Ventolin more than three-hourly, or if we’re still concerned after giving it to him, take him to the hospital or call an ambulance,” I read out aloud.
We both looked at our little boy. The decision was easy.
Janine rang the emergency services. At one point, she brought the phone over to Andrew and held it near, so the person on the other end could hear him still struggling to breathe.
I saw her give a visible sigh of relief as she was told that an ambulance was being sent. She started to give instructions on how to get to our house, when she changed her mind.
“I’ll meet them at the corner,” she announced into the phone, before ending the call.
I agreed with her. We live down a private road, and it is not easy to find our house unless you have been there before, or have been given clear and written directions. After midnight, with an emergency on our hands, we couldn’t afford to have time wasted by the ambulance showing up at the wrong house.
While Janine headed out, I lay Andrew down on a floor and covered him up. While he was still struggling, he was also drifting off to sleep. I didn’t know if this was good or not, but his breathing was clearly audible, and I kept a careful ear on that critical sound while I cleared a space around him. I expected the paramedics to want room, and having toys scattered everywhere wasn’t going to help them.
Once I was finished I just sat next to him, slowly stroking his blonde hair as I waited... and waited.
We love living out in the countryside, but one major disadvantage was that the nearest hospital with an emergency department was thirty minutes away. Janine and I had quickly discussed it before we called the ambulance, and had vetoed the idea of driving there ourselves. It would have taken both of us – one to drive and one to sit next to Andrew and make sure he was alright. That meant we would also have had to take Colin, who had remained sound asleep through all of this.
When the ambulance arrived, the two female paramedics quickly and professionally checked out Andrew. That’s when we learnt that it didn’t appear to be asthma.
“It sounds like it’s more in his throat than his chest,” she remarked, glancing up to where I was hovering nearby.
“His brother had croup a few days ago,” I quickly stated, “but we didn’t think it was that because Andrew didn’t have a croup cough.”
Croup was a disease we knew well, as both boys had had it previously; Colin more than once. A throat infection, it manifests as laryngitis in adults, but in young children the swelling can restrict the size of the airway, and also causes a very distinctive cough, like a bark. Colin spent his first Christmas Eve in the emergency ward at the Royal Childrens Hospital with a severe croup attack. He had another croup attack the following year when we were on holidays in Queensland.
This time, Colin merely had the cough and no other ill-effects. His throat was now large enough that the swelling didn’t have an appreciable impact on his ability to breathe. I had assumed that Andrew was also old enough, but maybe not.
Andrew was taken out to the ambulance and had a mask placed over his nose and mouth. They started to give him oxygen, and then nebulised adrenalin – treatments both boys had had previously in hospital for both croup and asthma.
Janine went with Andrew while I stayed home with Colin. I was lucky he’s a sound sleeper; he never woke up through the whole episode.
It was now just after one o’clock in the morning. I didn’t see the point in trying to get back to sleep. I didn’t know if I’d be getting a phone call, asking me to bring in something, or just with a status report. Instead, I sat down at the computer, put the phone next to me, and connected to the internet.
My first job was a message to my boss, telling him what was going on and telling him I wouldn’t be in the next day. Checking my emails, I found a couple of issues that needed urgent attention, so I replied with an explanation of why I couldn’t do them, and forwarded them to workmates who might’ve been able to help. After that, I forgot about work.
I spent the next couple of hours chatting with a friend in the USA. Another father with children the same age as ours, I unloaded myself on him. I’m sure I wasn’t totally rational at that point, but just being able to tell someone helped calm me down.
At three o’clock, I rang the hospital. Andrew had been bright and cheerful in the ambulance, but deteriorated again once he was in the emergency ward. Three times they’d given him adrenalin, and he was fine – until it wore off. Janine told me that they were going to transfer him to the ICU at the Royal Childrens Hospital. This was not news to make me feel better.
I found out afterwards that this was normal procedure. Anyone who needs three doses of adrenalin in the Emergency ward is transferred to the Intensive Care Unit. If at all possible, paediatric patients are sent to the ICU at the Childrens, as they have the specialist staff not available at other hospitals.
While I had Janine on the phone, I settled the details of what I had to do in the morning. I would need to get Colin ready for school and then take him down to the bus. Janine had suggested just keeping him from school for the day, but I pointed out that it was going to be easier to have him at school, rather than having him tag along while I did anything else that needed to be done.
By five o’clock, I had made Colin’s lunch, checked and packed his school bag, and had sorted out the clothes he would be wearing. I was supposed to wake him just before seven. I then proceeded to pack a change of clothes for Andrew. He’d gone in his pajamas, but he’d need a change of clothes to come home in. Unfortunately, Andrew and Colin are close to being the same size. Rather than take the risk of accidentally taking his brother’s clothes, I packed about three sets of everything – between them, there should be at least one complete set he’d be able to wear.
When I went into his room, I told Colin that Andrew and his mum were at the hospital, and that I’d be getting him ready for school.
“Now, I haven’t done this before, so I’m going to need your help,” I told him. “Can you help me get you ready for school?”
He gave me a grin and nodded his head.
First, I knew, was food. “What do you want eat for breakfast?”
He tilted his head to one side as he thought seriously on the matter. “Cheesy rice,” he eventually proclaimed.
Luckily, I was able to translate this. Janine had mentioned previously that he’d sometimes had a packet of microwaved instant macaroni and cheese for breakfast. Find the packet, I checked with Colin before I cooked it. It was right: this was what he wanted.
“Clean teeth?” I asked when he’d finished eating.
“No!” he told me sternly. “I have to make my bed, first.”
“Okay,” I said, as I accompanied him into his bedroom. Pulling up the sheet and doona cover was a lot simplier than I used to do when I was a kid, but then he’d only six. We couldn’t expect a lot and getting him used to doing chores was a big reason we wanted him to make his own bed. For that strenuous task, we gave him twenty cents. As he grew older, he’d get more chores, and more money. For now, it was just a case of getting him used to the concepts.
“Now it’s time to clean my teeth,” he told me.
After that, he got himself dressed. While he did that, I rang the Royal Childrens Hospital. I tracked my wife and son down to the ICU ward.
“We’ve only just arrived,” Janine told me, “and he’s doing fine. You’d barely know he was sick.”
“That’s good,” I said with honest relief. He was in the best place in the state if anything happened – surrounded by paediatric specialists twenty-four hours a day.
“He was so cheerful in the ambulance trip between the hospitals, he asked if they could put the lights and siren on,” Janine chuckled. “They indulged him, so we ended up going through red lights and everything!”
At that time of the morning, it wouldn’t have hurt and it helped keep up the spirits of a little four-year-old boy. I said a silent “thank you” to that unknown driver.
Soon afterwards, I got Colin into the car. Continuing my charade of needing his help, and so keeping him distracted from his missing brother and mum, I told him I didn’t know where I had to take him.
He held up his right arm. “Is this my right arm?”
“Yes it is,” I replied.
He sat in the back seat staring intently at first his right arm, then his left, before nodding to himself.
As we left the private road, he piped up, “Now right up the hill, Daddy.”
“Thank you, Colin,” I replied gratefully. I had suspected that was the way Janine would have taken him, but it was nice to have it confirmed.
“Now left at that street,” Colin ordered, pointing up ahead. I knew the bus stop was just near the end of that street.
Driving down, and getting ready to turn the corner at the end where the bus stop was, Colin suddenly yelled out.
“You’ve gone too far!”
I quickly stopped and reversed back to where Colin informed me, “Mummy always parks, here”.
Even then I did it wrong. As I helped him out of the car, Colin frowned at me. “Mummy parks her car this way,” indicating with his hands that she drove onto the grass and parked nose first to the footpath. I had parked parallel, instead.
“It’s alright, Colin,” I said soothingly. “My car is smaller than Mummy’s, and so I can park it this way.”
At that age, things have to be done exactly right, or it’s just not good enough. After taking a berating from my six-year-old son for “doing it wrong”, I walked him around the corner to the bus stop.
After he boarded, I couldn’t help grinning back at my smiling son, as he sat by the window at the front of the bus. I waved to him, and he waved back. This was the first time I’d seen him go on the bus by himself, and it was clear he was proud to show me how confident he was at doing it.
I then headed to the hospital: almost an hour and a half away. It could be done quicker than that, but I was hitting the end of peak hour traffic, and that made a huge difference.
When I arrived, Andrew was sleeping. His breathing was normal and he looked incredibly comfortable. Janine, on the other hand, looked exhausted. I gave her a hug of thanks and welcome. After getting an update on what was going on, I took her downstairs to the canteen for a coffee and a doughnut. I offered her breakfast, but she wasn’t hungry – a combination of stress, worry and general tiredness.
When we returned to the ICU, Andrew was awake, and starting to watch Chicken Run on a TV the nurses had wheeled around for him.
“Daddy!” he called out cheerfully as he saw me.
“Hi, Andrew,” I replied, as I leant over and gave him a cautious hug – trying to avoid displacing any of the wires they were using to monitor his heartbeat and oxygen absorption levels.
“I love you, Daddy,” he said while returning the hug.
“I love you, too,” I whispered back to him.
He was going to be alright.
This story is dedicated to all the Paramedics, Doctors, Nurses and other staff that help children like Andrew everyday.
Thank you,
Graeme
There are times when you receive a wake-up call; when life tells you to take another look at what is really important. We’ve just had one of those wake-up calls.
The Saturday morning had started out simply enough. Andrew woke up at 6am. That was unusual, but since he went to bed at 4pm the day before, it wasn’t unexpected. We don’t know what his grandparents do when they look after him and his brother, but whatever it is, they are always exhausted at the end of it.
He joined Janine and I in our bed and stayed, almost quietly, until 7am. Janine and Andrew then got up while I stayed in bed a little longer.
Janine was being graded on her horse, so she would know what level to compete in, which meant I would have to take the boys to their swimming lessons. This is something I quite enjoy. Living in a country where trips to the beach are a traditional part of the culture, learning to swim is the one activity we insist the boys do. We are lucky that both Andrew and Colin love to swim, though sometimes they are not keen on having lessons.
The trip to the swimming pool was quite uneventful – I only ran into two cars on the way there. Colin and Andrew drive pretend cars – that day Colin’s was black and Andrew’s was red – while I drive the real one. Naturally, being typical boys, their cars are faster than mine, which means they always get to the intersections before me. Unfortunately, being pretend cars, I have a tendency to not notice them, and will often run into the back of them while they were stopped, waiting to turn. This was one of my better trips; I’ve had times when I was running into their cars every couple of minutes.
They had a good swimming lesson and were quite excited when we finished.
“Where do you want to go for lunch?” I asked them. There were only two options, but it was part of the normal Saturday morning ritual.
“Old MacDonald’s!” Andrew insisted. Colin quickly agreed.
They never say “MacDonald’s”, it’s always “Old MacDonald’s”. I suppose I have to accept the blame for that. The nursery rhyme, “Old MacDonald had a farm,” was one of my favourites when they were younger, and somehow, with a logic I can admire, if not quite follow, the fast food chain inherited the prefix.
The other option was “Hungry Jack’s”. I’m looking forward to their confusion when I can take them overseas and they discover that elsewhere it’s called “Burger King”. I was once told that that Australian company law originally prohibited two companies having the same name, and when the USA fast food chain expanded to Australia, there was a small store somewhere in the country with the name “Burger King” so the multi-national had no choice but to pick a different name. The laws have since changed, but the Australian version of the company name is still widespread.
I let the boys play in the playground while I ordered two kids meals for lunch. After they’d eaten, we headed home.
It was an uneventful trip. The boys were too tired to drive their own cars, so I didn’t crash into anything at all!
Walking in the door, Janine was waiting for me.
“I’ve got some shocking news,” she announced as soon as she saw me. She was visibly shaken.
I looked at her, wondering what had gone wrong.
“Jason was cutting down a tree, when it fell on him and severed his hand. They’re flying him to The Alfred.”
I stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. Jason was her sister’s husband. A dedicated farmer, he has a property in country Victoria where they keep cattle. As I held her, I heard what little she knew. Her mum had rung only moments before I’d arrived home.
Jason’s right hand had been severed, or partially severed – she wasn’t sure – and the air ambulance was taking him to the trauma centre at The Alfred Hospital in Melbourne. His eldest son, Peter, a bright thirteen-year-old, had driven him back to the house, where Janine’s sister had rung for help.
“You just never imagine it could happen to someone you know,” Janine whispered, as her head lay nestled on my shoulder.
I agreed with her. While farm accidents were not uncommon, you never assumed it could happen to someone you knew.
We were both in a state of mild shock for the rest of the afternoon. I rang Janine’s brother to let him know what was going on. We then waited. Janine had to do something, so I told her to go out and play with her horse – something I knew would calm her down. When I spoke to Janine’s mum, she was rambling on about a missing video. I knew she was just trying to find something mundane to take her mind off the tragedy.
Before the end of the day we learnt that Jason was being operated on, and his wife and two boys were on their way to Melbourne.
It was now time to wait and see. The news was that the hand was still alive, so there was hope to re-attach it. It was too early to say whether or not the attempt would be successful.
We had no more news until the next morning. Janine rang her mum and spoke to her sister. Jason was in surgery for seven hours, and has another operation scheduled in a day’s time. While it is going to cause them endless complications – both financially as they struggle on just her income, and organisationally as they try to work out how Jason can continue rehabilitation while they live in rural Victoria – there is good news. Jason is able to move his fingers. The initial signs are good that he’ll regain at least partial use of the hand.
We worry about so many little things in our lives: how we could afford that special gift; what to do for our holidays; are our boys getting the education they need; how to stop the horses escaping from their paddocks.
What happened to Jason makes us rethink what’s really important. He’s alive. He’ll hopefully have the use of his hand. Everything else is minor in comparison.
It was a week before my wife’s birthday. I took the boys into town to buy their mother birthday presents and cards, while their mum went off to do the weekly grocery shopping.
With my recent experiences of Mother’s Day behind me, I knew this was a task fraught with peril, but I gamely stepped up to the plate and headed out the door. Of course, the alternative was to put up with a year of forlorn looks from Janine (she’s too polite to constantly complain). The boys wouldn’t be so kind to me, as they love giving presents, so there wasn’t really a choice.
As there were several shops we needed to visit, I parked roughly in the middle of all of them.
First mistake.
“There’s the toy shop. We can get Mummy a present there!”
Now, I couldn’t fault Andrew, as every four-year-old knows that the only place to buy presents is at a toy shop. With Colin quickly agreeing with his younger brother I had two choices: tell them no, and start the shopping trip with a couple of sullen kids, or tell them yes, but insist on being able to veto any of their selections. I took the sensible option.
“Okay, but Mummy may be a bit old for some of these things. Let’s see what we can find, but there are lots of other places we can look, too.”
We entered the shop and the boys had a good look around. After I’d suggested that their mum may be a bit old for a toy make-up kit, Andrew lost interest. Colin found some cards, and I let him pick one for a birthday card.
“What does it say inside?” Colin asked.
“There’s nothing inside,” I answered. When his face dropped, I quickly added, “but that means you can write whatever you want inside!”
He seemed happy with that answer, and with a quiet sigh of relief, I gave Colin the money to pay for the card.
One item down, but we still had lots to go.
The next stop was the hardware store. I had another chore to do there, but Janine had clued me in on what was likely to happen. As usual, she was one-hundred-percent correct.
“Look Daddy!” Andrew exclaimed excitedly, pointing at the garden hose fittings. “Do you think Mummy would like these?”
Why he likes looking at hose connections, I don’t know. I’d never noticed it before on previous trips, but Janine said he did exactly the same thing when they were looking for presents for my birthday.
“No, Andrew. Why don’t we look over here for something to get her,” I replied, point to the other end of the store.
I’d read Diary of a Wombat to the boys the night before, and a scene from the book had given me an idea. Not exactly a romantic present, but for the boys it was the joy of giving that was key.
I found what I was looking for.
“Look Colin, Andrew. What do you think of this?”
They looked at me, and then what I was pointing at. Their puzzlement was obvious.
“Do you remember the story last night? How the wombat tore up the welcome mat? Why don’t we get Mummy a welcome mat for the back door?”
My attempt at enthusiasm was partially successful. Colin decided it was good idea, while Andrew wandered back to the hose fittings. At least he was happy to just look at them while I paid for everything.
While the mat was something we could use, it was really just to distract the boys while I bought the other things we needed. After putting it into the car, it was time to buy birthday cards from myself and Andrew, and some wrapping paper.
I took them into the newsagent.
“Why don’t you try to find a card for Mummy, Andrew?”
You’d think I would’ve learnt my lesson by now, but no. Andrew started looking at totally inappropriate cards. Not the adult humour ones – the ones for birthdays in the one to ten age range.
“Look, Daddy. Numbers!”
Andrew loves numbers. With no intention of picking a card, he just started going through all the numbers written on the cards.
I decided to leave him for a few minutes while I found a card I could give to Janine. It didn’t take me long before I picked one, and I headed over to where Andrew was still busy.
“These cards are for young boys and girls, Andrew. Mummy’s older than that.”
“How old’s Mummy?” he asked.
I made a mental note to explain to him at some stage that it’s not polite to ask a lady’s age. The middle of the shop was not really the place to do that, though, so I took what I thought was the easy way out.
“Mummy’s [this word has been deleted as a matter of national security: Editor*], but there are no cards for that age, so you’ll have to pick a different one,” I explained, feeling proud of myself for finding a way out of the dilemma. I knew Andrew was fussy and wouldn’t pick a card with the wrong number.
“Yes, there are,” came this voice floating down from the front desk. “They’re up here near the counter.”
This wasn’t even a pimply-faced youngster without appropriate social training that I could blame. This was a mature-aged lady who really should’ve known better. I was ready to kill her. While I struggled to work out what to do, Andrew wandered down and found the appropriate card. There was only one card for that age.
“Look, Daddy. The number [obscenity deleted: Editor*]!”
After many minutes of patient persuasion, I lead Andrew down to where there were some more appropriate cards – one’s without an age listed.
“Do you like this one, Andrew?” I asked, after showing him a number. I took the nod of his head as an agreement, and I relaxed at having overcome that major problem.
Mistake number two, but one I wasn’t to realise immediately.
With that out of the way, I had Andrew and Colin pick some wrapping paper. By this stage, I was ready to accept anything up to and include Toy Story paper, or even something less appropriate, but somewhere along the line, the two boys had learnt that some things were for boys and some things were for girls. I don’t know where they learnt that, because Janine and I have both been careful to try to avoid gender stereotyping. They picked a couple of rolls of plain pink paper “because that’s a girl’s colour.”
The next stop was the chemist. Janine loves taking baths, and aromatic bath oil was an easy present at any time. With the help of the assistant, we found two matching large bottles – one green and one red. Clearly trying to lull me into a false sense of security, the boys each picked different bottles; I’d been prepared for a fight if they picked the same bottle, but they were being kind to me.
After accepting an offer to have the bottles gift-wrapped, I collected the boys and we headed home. Janine was still out shopping by the time we got back. Andrew and Colin were very proud of their purchases and insisted on carrying their bottles into the house. While mentally cringing at the tears that would follow if they dropped and broke them, I let them go. It wasn’t my place to deny them the simple pleasure they got from carrying the presents.
We put the bottles into a secret hiding place (the drawer under Colin’s bed where we always put the presents that are from him) and wrapped the rest of the presents.
“Okay, why don’t we write on the cards before Mummy gets home?” I suggested when we were finished. The boys quickly agreed.
I gave Colin his card, and he immediately start to write his name. I then gave Andrew his card and brought out mine.
“Where’s my card?” Andrew asked, puzzled.
“There it is,” I said, pointing to the card I’d helped him pick.
“That’s not my card!” he insisted as he looked around. “Where’s my card?” he asked, tears beginning to fall.
This was when I realised about mistake number two.
“I thought this was the card you wanted,” I said, as a feeling of helplessness started to seep through me. “Look, it’s a lovely card!”
“It’s not my card!”
I looked at the clock. The newsagent would be closing in twenty minutes. I gave up and admitted defeat. There was no point trying to argue; you just can’t win with a four-year-old.
“Okay, everyone. Back to the car. We’re going back to the shop to get Andrew’s card.”
“Whose fault is it, Daddy,” Colin asked me as we walked up to the car.
This is a fairly recent trait of his – always wanting to know whose at fault. Most of the time, it wasn’t a big deal. Then there were times like this....
“It’s my fault, Colin,” I conceded. “Daddy’s a duffer.”
It is amazing how often I’m forced to admit that. It’s not even always my fault, but it seems that when he won’t accept that it is no-one’s fault, I’m the one who ends up taking the blame.
“What was that?” Andrew asked.
“Daddy’s a duffer,” Colin explained pontifically to his little brother.
“Oh, okay.”
We headed back to the shop. The same lovely lady was on the counter.
“I bought the wrong card,” I explained through gritted teeth, as Andrew picked the right card and brought it to up to me. The shop assistant had the audacity to smile.
Arriving home, we found Janine inside unpacking the grocery shopping.
“What happened?” she asked. “I thought you would’ve been home well before now.”
“I bought the wrong card,” I explained, again. “We had to go back to get the right one.”
“Daddy’s a duffer,” Colin stated proudly.
Well, at least that’s something the boys admire about their dad. It might not be the most noble of callings, but being a duffer isn’t so bad.
Or, so I keep telling myself.
* Edited by Janine
It all started the night before.
We were at my sister’s house for our monthly family get-together. As Janine’s birthday had been during the previous month, we were obliged to attend. The boys enjoyed going to my sister’s house, anyway, as there were lots of toys there that they only saw once a month, at best.
Dinner had been quite successful. The boys ate their usual big dinner – a single sausage roll each. Given the attraction of new toys, eating always comes a poor second in their list of priorities. They only ate at all because we insisted. Their preference was to skip dinner and keep playing.
After dinner, while the adults had a leisurely conversation over coffee, the boys and their cousins disappeared to other parts of the house.
It was only as we were getting ready to leave did I track them down. I found Colin with his seven-year-old cousin Mark. Mark was teaching Colin how to play chess.
Naturally, I watched eagerly. I’ve always enjoyed chess, though I haven’t played a serious game for more than a decade. I’d been wondering if the boys were old enough to learn, and it was apparent that the answer was “Yes”.
With a little assistance from his dad (“Move that bishop there, Colin. Now move your queen over here,”) Colin eventually won. He didn’t know he’d checkmated his cousin, as he had no idea of the idea of the game.
Colin’s method of working out if he was winning was interesting. If he’d captured more pieces than the other player, he was winning. It didn’t matter if they were pawns or queens – it was the number that counted.
It was now past time to go, but there was no way Colin had been prepared to go until he’d finished his game.
“Can we play again?” Colin asked me.
“No, it’s time to go home,” I said as I stood up.
“I want to play again,” he insisted, staying stubbornly seated.
“It’s time to go home,” I repeated sternly.
He was tired. It only took a minute of firmly telling him that we were going before he gave up. Now, if it’d been Andrew, it would’ve taken at least five minutes of complex negotiations, but his elder brother is more amenable.
As I put Colin into the car, he made his tactical move.
“Will you play chess with me, Daddy?”
“Tomorrow,” I replied, falling into the trap.
“I want to play another game tonight!”
“It’s too late. It’ll be bedtime when we get home.”
“Can we play chess before bed?”
“No, Colin. Tomorrow, I’ll play with you. I promise,” I answered, sealing my doom.
By the time we arrived home, Andrew was already fast asleep, and Colin was barely conscious.
“Will you play chess with me?” Colin asked me drowsily, as I took him out of the car.
One thing that occurs with kids as they grow older is their concentration span improves. The ability to keep their focus on one thing for an extended period of time is critical for school. I’m happy to say that Colin’s proven his ability in this area beyond reasonable doubt. Now, if he could just learn to remember the answers he’d been given, life would start to become easier.
“Tomorrow,” I promised gently.
The next morning, Colin remembered that promise. I took shameless advantage of his enthusiasm to make him eat a good breakfast. All I had to do was to tell him that we couldn’t play until he’d had his breakfast. Andrew was also keen to learn so, after they’d finished eating, I had two eager young boys watching as I dragged out my old magnetic chess set.
“I’ll start by showing you how all the pieces move.”
“I already know,” Colin replied haughtily.
“But Andrew doesn’t,” I pointed out.
I started with the major pieces.
“This piece is called the rook or castle. You can call it either.”
“I’m going to call it a castle,” Colin stated. His brother quickly agreed.
“And, this piece is called a knight.”
“I’m going to call it a horsey,” Andrew said.
“That’s okay,” I replied. I think almost every young kid starts by calling it that.
“I’m going to call it a knight,” Colin said. “And I’m going to call this one a horsey,” he added pointing at the other knight.
I raised my eyebrows at that. I’d never considered calling the same pieces different names.
“And I’m going to call this one a knight,” Andrew said, pointing to his second knight.
Okay, I can live with that. Rather than two knights, or two horsey’s, they had one of each.
After explaining the knight’s complex movement, I quickly went through the other pieces. They seemed to understand, though I expected to have to keep correcting.
The game started. Colin took the white pieces, and Andrew took the black.
“Black is the best,” Andrew told his brother. He seemed to sincerely believe that. Each time he seemed to be in front, he’d remind Colin that black was the best colour.
I took a minimalistic approach to helping. I let them choose what they wanted to move, and then only intervened to help them with options available for that piece. At one point, Andrew was all set to checkmate Colin, but didn’t realise. Colin didn’t realise either. It was another dozen moves before Colin finally moved his king out of danger.
The game extended for quite some time. While I’d explained about trying to capture the opposing king, Colin seemed more interested in just capturing as many pieces as they could. Andrew just wanted to get his pawns down to the eighth row, so they could be changed into something else. I didn’t push them in their choices, so they had pawns promoted into knights (or horsey’s – I never quite worked out which), queens and bishops.
Eventually, Andrew ran out of pawns to promote. He was down to his king, a rook and a bishop. He kept asking me if he could change his king into something else, and was very disappointed when I told him that it couldn’t.
By this stage, Colin was down to his king and a single pawn. Without a lot of effort, he got the pawn to the end row and transformed it into a queen. Soon afterwards, he captured Andrew’s rook. I knew, even if they didn’t, that that meant that Andrew couldn’t win.
“Who’s winning, Daddy?” Colin asked me.
“I think you are,” I answered.
“I don’t want Colin to win!” Andrew interjected, throwing himself to the floor, sulking.
“Why don’t you do move your bishop there?” I suggested.
He made the move I pointed out.
“Now, you are attacking his king. What do you say?” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Check!” he said happily.
“That’s not fair. I want to win!” Colin wailed.
“I want to win. I don’t like losing!” Andrew snarled back, tears starting to fall again.
I looked at Andrew’s teary face. I then peered across at Colin’s trembling lower lip.
I knew when I was beaten. I wasn’t even playing, and I’d been well and truly defeated by a masterful tactical assault from the two young competitors in front of me.
Checkmate.
I did the only thing possible. I arranged for the game to end in a draw. That way no one lost.
“Does that mean we both won?” Colin asked cheerfully.
At the happy faces on both my sons, I nodded my head in surrender.
“Yes, Colin. You both won.”
It’s a father’s worst nightmare: forgetting a birthday.
I was horrified to discover that I’d done exactly that.
“Daddy, William’s sad because no one has given him any presents and today’s his birthday.”
I looked at Colin, puzzled. While it’s possible that there’s something that Janine hasn’t told me, I was sure that I only had two son’s: Colin and Andrew. I quickly considered the animals. The horses had recently had their birthday, which they share with every other horse in the world, and I know the dog’s birthday is sometime in December. I can’t remember the cat’s, but his name is Mike, not William.
I quickly scanned the room, hoping to see a friend of Colin’s who was visiting, but the only person in sight was Andrew, who was busy building a runway for his latest plane. I made a mental note to send a thank you letter to whoever invented Lego.
“Well, we’ll just have to get him a present. What do you think he’ll like?”
“Anything,” Colin replied. “He just wants some presents.”
I went to the fridge and removed a fridge magnet in the shape of a lizard that we’d received from a fast food store at some time in the past.
“Would William like a pet lizard?” I asked.
That was when I got to see William. Colin pulled him out from behind his back and asked him.
“William says that’s not a toy, it’s for the fridge,” Colin announced pontifically. “He wants a toy for a present.”
I looked around. What does one give a two inch piece of plastic in the shape of a shark for a birthday present? I considered looking on the internet for suggestions, but somehow I doubted I’d find anything useful.
My eyes fell on a small figure on a skateboard – another fast food toy. The way I saw it, William could eat the rider, and then go use the skateboard to travel around the house. It’s not that I have anything against skateboarders, but in the total scheme of things they usually come second to birthday presents for plastic sharks. The thing in their favour is the fact that there aren’t too many plastic sharks that demand birthday presents.
“Here you are, William. Would you like a skateboard for your birthday?”
“He says yes, Daddy!” Colin informed me cheerfully, and headed off to play with his friend and the skateboard. I decided to keep my distance, so I could honestly answer, “Sorry, officer. I wasn’t there when the shark ate him. I didn’t see it happen,” if the need arose.
I returned to what I was doing, which was preparing dinner. I had decided on Fettuccine with a Meat Sauce. This was mainly because it was something I knew how to cook, and it was what I usually made on the weekends. It was quick and easy; the boys won’t eat it, but as the eternal optimist I had hopes that one day they would eat my cooking. Just in case, I also decided to make some Garlic Bread and cook some pasta shapes, as I knew the boys would eat those.
I had just put the chopped onion into the frying pan, when Colin returned.
“William’s allowed to have more than one present, Daddy. Can we get him something else, too?”
Thinking that it hadn’t been too hard to find him something the first time, I blissfully answered, “Sure,” and started to look around.