A little company during the ritual

This morning was a later run out the door as I am off to Stansted today.. A bad night with NuzzleNScratch (more on that in a moment) has left my poor VELP shattered… we were both awake from 5ish.

So, just as I get up and the Twinge fall asleep, Monkey decides its time for her to wake up. Ordinarily, she’ll sleep stumble into my side of the bed for a tuddle with MBW. Not this morning.

“I want to sit with you Daddy.”
“Hang on,” say I. “I am getting washed and ready for work.”
“I will help you then Daddy.”
Wait a moment… Its 06h45 and my eldest wants to help. Very cute but not the offer I need to hear when I want to do the dance of trousers half on one leg. I concede for the sake of Sleeping Beauty 1&2&3 and stagger off to the bathroom. At this point I’m thinking my walking stick would be useful.

“I’m sitting here Daddy,” pointing to the Porcelain Throne. I’m just grateful I’ve had my morning widdle. I’m more grateful, as little hands go everywhere, that I didn’t miss. A quick wash of her mitts and time to do scrub up.

“Daddy, why do you hold on to the window sill?”

“To stop the house falling over. Or maybe me falling over. I’m not quite sure.” I’m half asleep still. I pray she didn’t take the first bit too literally.

“Don’t be silly, the house won’t fall over” (phew). “Do you use slippy dippy soap Daddy?”

Ah. Easier ground here. “Yes. And then I wash me clean and do my teeth.”

“With the noisy brush?”

“With the noisy brush.”

“Mummy uses the noisy brush.”

All goes silent. Except the toothbrush, Oral Bs finest whipping away plaque and the remains of this mornings coughathon to oblivion. She’s deep in thought. This is a bad sign. “What’s on your mind, Monkey?” I ask.

“I want Mr Tumble.” She says with a decisive nod. This is familiar ground but one I am not keen to enter at 7h00.

I try a compromise. “Mr Tumble isn’t up yet. How about cbeebies?”

A nod. That will do me. I spray under my pits, spray under her pits and shoe her out. I go to the tumble dryer (another blog entry itself), locate socks, pull on my shirt and hunt for a tie.

“I want a tie.”

Oh no. This is turning into hall marks of another want. “Why do you want a tie?”

“I want to go to work with you,” comes the expected response. “And go on a train and see the fish and see Andrew and watch Mr Tumble.”

I sigh. I consider the options here, being dress her, break her heart and ignore her wish or find a miracle. Considering still, I fall into my desk chair. Miracle, miracle – and I spot it! I make a dive to the sofa that footballers can only dream of throwing for a foul, Tom Daley would hand over all his medals, I’d be approached for a new sporting sponsorship. I GRAB Mr Tumble the Toy Doll and put him to my ear. “What’s that Mr Tumble? You want to sit on the sofa and watch Cbeebies with Monkey?”

Mr Tumble, suddenly animated, nods.

“What do you think,” I ask Monkey.

She nods, sits in Mummies seat on the sofa and settles on, clutching Mr Tumble, occasionally having a conversation with him as if he were a baby. She rocks him as I pack my bag. This morning has been harder work than most. Just as I finish, the little voice pipes up.

“Mr Tumble would like some boobie, Daddy.”

There’s my limit. I kiss her forehead, wish her a good day at nursery and pop my head in to MBW.

“Good luck,” say I. “Love you all and see you tonight.”

I head out the door to a waiting taxi, wondering what other questions lie in wait for MBW.

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