After 30{something} years we've discovered the meaning of Christmas.
Kiddies.
They make it more fun than a futon full of frogs.
First there was our initial dealing with good ole Father Christmas.
Ahhh.. Santa. You doddery old fool you.
We'd decided to ask Santa for a trike for the lad, and as Saint Nick was a tad busy this year (seems the recent financial crisis has impacted upon his supply chain management) he wanted to deliver a little early, but only if we handed it over on xmas day. So when Santa, via our good friends M&C&B left the trike at the house, dad put it away in the shed, tucked behind the windsurfing gear, an old oil heater, motorbike jackets hanging from the roof and an upturned wheelbarrow.
Later that day some friends dropped by to talk windsurfing (as you do), and hence dad proudly opened
the shed and pulled out his brand spanking new 5.8, and laid it out the grass.MMmmmm... newww geeaaaarrrrrr... dad drooled.
Ten minutes later...
"Where's Mike??"
No sign of the lad.
"Oh well, gates shut. Must be with mum."
Or at least thats what they thought till they went to chuck the sail back in the shed.
There he was.
Mike.
Sitting on his trike and looking gleefully up at dad, pushing it backwards and forwards in 4ft of space.
"Oh crumbs" said dad. "If Santa finds out we're in deep guano."
He didnt. We're still on his nice list. (He checks it twice you know.)
As for Xmas itself...
Well the boy excelled himself with two family do's in the one day, which of course meant a true festival of showing off for the lad.
And the opening of numerous presents.
Being under two this meant Thomas toys by the dozen, a ride on plastic truck that also plays tunes, honks horns and makes farty electric diesel noises until mum and dad go insane (its true; we're both in post Xmas therapy) , not to mention plastic trains that also sing electric songs till mum and dad go insaner.
That is of course after they have already been driven mad by the packaging.
What in the wide wide world of sports is going on with kiddies-toys and their boxes?
Not only do you need a PhD in packaging to get the damn things open, but the little fiddly twist ties they're held in by can only be opened by the fingers of the half-starved 12 year old Chinese labourer who twisted them into position in the first place.
For one particularly lashed-in car dad had to retreat to the garage to find tin snips and two different sized phillips head screwdrivers.
Tru dinks.
Of course the whole time the unpacking was taking place the lad was standing by remarkably patiently and saying (progressively louder mind you....)
"Open it."
"OPEN it."
"OPEN IT!"
A slow and steady chant which certainly puts the pressure on the box opener. And which his grandmother pointed out, as it contained a subject ("it"), a predicate containing a verb ("open") and made sense, may well have been his first grammatically correct sentence. (Which is arguably better than most of this blog.)
Unfortunately the other favourite word of the day was "sorry". Usually said just before he threw his lunch on the ground/drink on the table/snapped his xmas hat in two. (Though he now uses it in the correct order - as evidenced by recent smashings of the fridge door into dads leg, followed by "sorry"...)
Of course it hasn't all been Xmas Xmas Xmas.
Being summer, theres also been other activities. Like cricket.
How and why he likes it so much we're not sure, but when dad sits down to watch some on the telly in comes the lad, who props and points and says...
"CRICKET!"
And when the family was out to arvo tea at a friends place, and he walked past the man-of-the-house's shed in which the radio was tuned to the test match, he again propped, turned, entered the shed and announced...
"CRICKET!"
And then inside he appeared in the dining room with a Grey Nicholls single scoop (apparently a laughing stock now, but willow-gold in dads day) and announced...
"CRICKET!"
Of course this brings despair to the lads mum, who famously asked one day:
"Whatcha doing?"
"Watching some Test cricket".
"Test my patience cricket more likely."
And walked off.
The holidays also included a week down at Sandy Point, where the boy spent numerous hours fighting over xmas pressies with his longtime friend Master A. At times it was like WWIII over a plastic helicopter, with pushing and shoving and pulling and assorted "MINE!" yells.
Until it came for one or the other to go to bed, bath or with mum and dad to the shop for yet more milk.
At which time it became (for Mike):
"Ashee?? Ashee???" (i.e., where has Master A gone; I want him back.)
And conversely for Master A...
"Mike??? Mike???"
Until they were together again and briefly interacted by trying to tie the dogs tails together.
There were trips to beach, the park, the windfarm but best of all, the Foster market. And more particularly, the Thomas train on the footy ground.
Which wasn't Thomas.
Or even a train.
But rather an electric car with a whistle, pulling two open carriages and driven by a madman who had clear instructions (probably and understandably from the Foster cricket club) to never drive in the tracks he'd made previously, and hence for five minutes he tore the "train" about the oval throwing in more turns than The Stig on speed.
The lady opposite us said she was about to chuck.
Mike loved it.
And hence afterwards it only became possible to stop him running onto the pitch and chasing (Benny Hill-like) the "twain" by bribing him with a kransky sausage (mild) and sauce.
Ahhh... christmas.
Ahhh... summer.
Ahhh... holidays.
You gotta love it.
Even more with a kiddie. Print this post
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