In my quest to write something funny I sought out my husband’s views;
“I could shag you in the kitchen again – that seemed to go down well”, he said hopefully.
Ignoring his crestfallen face I dismissed his suggestion out of hand;
“That’s old hat. It has to be something new, something off the wall. I need to discover you’ve been wearing my underwear to work, or come home and catch you in an incriminating – yet hilarious – position with the cleaner”.
“We don’t have a cleaner”.
“Then we need to get one…”
I’ve been pleading for a cleaner ever since my children began using bodily fluids as a weapon.
The youngest are now two, and it still scores highly in their blackmail arsenal. Three year old J adopts a haphazard approach to his toilet-training, exacerbated by his recent decision that he was too old to wear a nappy to bed. I pointed out that, if successful in his endeavour, I would no longer be able to ride on the kudos of having three children in nappies, but he was most insistent. Masterfully he manages to restrict his ‘accidents’ to the mornings when I am late for work, staying dry only at weekends when I have all the time in the world to change bedding. Anyone would think he didn’t want me to go to work; is three too young for emotional blackmail of this nature?
Two year old E’s weapon of choice is poo. Since she was eighteen months old she has refused to go in her nappy, preferring to retire to the downstairs loo with a CBeebies magazine. I am instructed to leave the room to afford her some privacy, so I spend an inordinate amount of time sitting on the floor outside the loo, listening to grunts of epic proportions as though tuned into radio coverage of Wimbledon. She will time her toilet trips to perfection, cueing in a poo just when she feels attention has deserted her in favour of one of her siblings. In fact she is capable of curling one out on demand, should anyone else attempt to wrestle the lime-light from her.
Her twin sister G uses a more sophisticated tool in her bodily fluid fight against authority; she can vomit at will. Learnt as a baby following fits of crying, she has now perfected the art of turning a screaming session into a more productive episode. Five years ago I would have vomited myself at the thought; now I simply continue my phone conversation whilst catching sick in my hands. If there’s a lot I resort to using the lifted-up hem of my top, as though harvesting apples.
I am secretly so impressed with a choice of tactical option that produces both guaranteed attention and acquiescence, that I’m considering employing it at work. Imagine if you were to regurgitate your breakfast over your boss as he instructs you to present last week’s figures to the board. I doubt he’d be back for more… My daughter could have hit on the perfect solution to my current over-capacity issue at work; vomit when allocated work. Well, it’s got to be a preferable option to curling out a turd on the desk.
If you’ve enjoyed this post, please share it with others by tweeting or forwarding, and consider showing your appreciation by voting for More than Just a Mother in The MADs Awards.