Ding dong ding dong.
‘Groceries are here,’ I cried, dropping the towel I was
using on The Terrible Third’s tangled hair and running down the hall.
It was about 7pm on a warm Perth summer night. There was
still plenty of light left in the sky and a young guy was standing at the door
with a trolley stacked high with plastic crates. I opened up the door and
wedged the security screen open. We started unpacking the bags of groceries out
onto the floor.
‘Hi Mamma,’ a little voice said behind me. I turned to see
my not-quite-three year old standing nude, trailing her towel, a massive grin
on her face.
‘Hi Bubba,’ I replied. ‘Can you go and get dressed please?’
At that moment she spotted a large jar of Nutella in one of
the bags. ‘Mine,’ she said, grabbing at it. I reached over and pulled it out of
her grasp. She immediately had a break down like I had pulled off one of her
arms.
Meanwhile the young delivery guy had been telling me that he
was getting married in April and their first baby was due a few months later in
August. As The Third’s tanty amped up, his eyes began to widen. She threw
herself on the floor, knocking over jars and sending some tins of tomatoes
rolling across the floor. Her nudity was centre stage as she flailed around,
legs kicking. I stepped in front of her, more for his sake than hers.
‘We’re going on a honeymoon,’ he said, ‘but she’s probably
not allowed to fly right? So I’m taking her on a camping trip.’
Wait, what?
‘Umm,’ I said as I picked The Third up and shoved her in the
direction of her Dad who had appeared to see what the noise was about. ‘But you
can’t take your pregnant new wife camping for your honeymoon.’ I had visions of
this poor woman sleeping on twigs and enduring endless trips to pee behind a
tree, lugging her huge belly around as she clambered over logs and rocks. How
was she going to satisfy her KFC chicken and cookies-and-cream sandwich craving
when they were in the middle of the bush?
The Third reappeared wearing mis-matched pyjamas, a Dora
beanie, a backpack and carrying a large bubble wand which she waved in front of
her like a samurai sword. I really was going to have to stop the kids watching
Ninjago, I thought to myself.
He looked her over with a mixture of concern and distaste. She
began beating an 18-pack of toilet rolls with her sword. He looked terrified.
‘No really, it’s awesome, it is,’ I stammered quickly. ‘They
don’t come out like this, remember. And they’re not all this loud. It’s taken
her three years to become this crazy.’
Clearly the wrong thing to say.
I took a deep breath and looked him in the eye.
‘They give you plenty of time to love them before they turn
into Frootloops,’ I said with what I hoped was a reassuring smile on my face. A
roll of toilet paper bumped into his foot.
‘Good luck,’ I called as he packed his crates up and ran
back to his truck.
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