Join the dots

The Deathstar (a.k.a Westfield Southland Shopping Centre) didn't get that name for nothing.

There we were happily playing in the kiddie safe area, all happy and smiles and being willed by the dark side of the force to stay another hour and spend all our hard earned, when Mike decided he wouldnt mind a drive of the big red car (slash X-wing fighter).

So he wandered over.

Unfortunately the 3 y.o bogan/muppet driving it saw Mikes approach.
Sat up.
Put on a grimace.
And when Mike got in range... thrust out a hand straight into Mikes chest and sent him flying across the playpen and square onto his bum.

Mike was, well, stunned. (Much like his watching dad, this being his introduction to play pen rage.)

Oh well, just a little shove. Life goes on. No one hurt

Only the stormtrooper bogan decided that if you're on the dark side you may as well prove it.
So as soon as Mike rose to his feet the prince of darkness lept from his cockpit and gave Mike a fair old whack in the head Barry Hall would be proud of.

Little shite. (The kid; not neccessarily Barry Hall.)

Guess you don't gain universe domination by being the nice guy.

Little shite.

Of course this wasn't Mikes only pain for the week. In fact it was just the start of a bad run for the lad.
First he had to put up with dads cooking.

See, there was the poor sap rushing to cook tea before the worker in the family (mum) comes home and hence was taking a few shortcuts when all of a sudden...

"OOOOOppppps!"

Instead of a sprinkle, in had gone half the goddamn chilipowder jar into the spag-bog sauce.

"No worries" mused dad... "I'll just scoop it out."
Which he did, gave it a little more simmer time then and served it up.
Boy first.

"Wonder why he's gone off it and whinging..." wondered dad a few minutes later. "Thats some of my best work."

Taste test.

"Yowsers!!! WATER!!!"

Bugger. (Poor (hot) boy.)
But, unfortunately for the lad, mere culinary scalding/poisoning was nothing.

Apparently at the local day care centre (not Mike's) there had been a notice on the door announcing that "hand/foot/mouth" had gone through the place like a dose of salts and everyone should be on the watch out. Now hand/foot/mouth is a nasty piece of work, leaving spots and blisters all over a kiddies hands, feet, and not surprisingly, mouth.

But it prolly should also have the word "bum" in there. Cos thats where we first noticed it. A spotty arse.

Mum and dad didnt really think anything of it and happily let him play with the other kiddies at the dinner party, but dad felt a bit of a nong cos he'd just told all and sundry how using a new clothes washing powder had cleaned up the boys eczema, but a shirt change had revealed the worst case of eczema+spots known to man or beast.

The next day the grizzles started, the tiredness set in, and misery was commenced. Not to mention a total hatred of food as the blisters started in his mouth. Poor tike. And it was pretty much this way all week.

The coop-de-grass came around 5:30am one morning, when the lad had woken hungry and tired and sick of his spots.

Mum duly rose in the hope he'd relax and sleep a little more before the day of clinging and grizzles started in earnest, but he wouldn't settle even with a belly full of formula (he was popped back onto baby formula to try and get a little energy into him in some non-solid form).

"Bring the boy in here and see if he'll rest in our bed" called out dad.

He didn't... his love of the red LED lights on the alarm clock got too much for him even when on deaths door, so he started to crawl over a dozing dad to get at them.

Or at least that was the plan. Just when his head lined up slap bang with the middle of his beloved fathers somewhat hairy chest, he paused. He raised himself a little higher. He spotted his target below. And...

HHHUUUUEEEEE!!!

Yes. Vomit. All... over... dad.

Who just lay there for a second in the dark... till he could feel it oozing down his shoulder blades.

"Medic!"

(Where's the video camera when you need it?)

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