So, my Father’s Day ended up being a blend of absolute bliss, matrimonial discord and love, toddler nightmare freakout, and Big Family Bonding- a fairly microcosmic slice of life as a father and husband wrapped up in a 15 hour period. Let’s get listy on this shit.
- Absolute Bliss= Watching two matches of Euro 2012 and doing some writing.
- Matrimonial Discord= Mrs. H slept in way too late. As the “Hiplings” say- Epic Father’s Day Fail!
- Matrimonial Love= A 1971 Raleigh cruiser and some Barry White time.
- Toddler Nightmare Freakout= The single most insane flip out my daughter has ever pulled, ever. It shall be known as “The Great Father’s Day Rebellion”. I have spoken.
- Big Family Bonding= A fantastic BBQ at my in-laws. Great food, conversations, cousins were playing, Grandparents were glowing, beer was tasted. I suppose that this also qualifies for the “Absolute Bliss” part, too.
I’m telling you, my Father’s Day couldn’t have been going any better. I cranked out a blog entry in one quick sitting, early enough in the morning so that I could watch the football at 11:30. Watched the football BY MYSELF(!?), in Manchair, clicking back and forth between 2 crucial games. It was perfect.
Things started unravelling when Mrs. Huttsez and the daughter returned from an afternoon at the beach with my father-in-law. I heard the car door slamming, followed by some blood curdling screams. Dark clouds were gathering. The forces of Strife and Discord were moving amongst the people*, preparing the insurgents** for the uprising. Rebellion was in the air.
*The people= my daughter
**Also my daughter
The door crashed open, and Little Miss Guevara whirled into the house kicking and screaming. I looked up at a very frazzled Mrs. H.
“She hasn’t napped and she thinks that the fun is over for the day. And I can’t convince her otherwise.” Mrs. Huttsez looked like part of her soul had been eaten.
We had about an hour before we had to go to the BBQ, so we figured we’d distract her with some fun for a bit, before getting her in the bath to wash all the sand off and getting her dressed.
She didn’t want to read books, play dress up, build with blocks, paint, draw, or play with her kitchen. Adventure walks and tricycle rides were out, as well. It seemed that all she really wanted to do, was yell “I DON’T WANT TO!”. Because that’s all she bloody did.
I could have suggested that we bake pink frosted cookies to give to the Unicorns so that we could ride on them through meadows where cupcakes grow, and she still would have spat “I DON’T WANT TO!” right back at me.
It wasn’t just the yelling that was disconcerting, oh no. She was staring me down as she said it, with fists clenched and heels dug in. Revolution!
It was becoming apparent that some time in the “not ready yet place” was inevitable, so I gave her the “two choices”- have some fun with Dad or go into lockdown. She chose lockdown...
For the next hour and a half, she was in and out of the ”not ready place”- screaming, refusing to stop screaming, and screaming even louder when we would tell her she could come out when she stopped screaming. Utter madness. I was starting to think that maybe she was getting some nasty bug, or had some physical thing that was really bothering her. She’s freaked out before, but nothing came close to what was going on during The Father’s Day Rebellion.
We were now about an hour late for the Big Family BBQ, and we still had to get her bathed and changed. Fuck.
She refused to cooperate. We tried everything- bribery, serious bribery, and lavish absurd bribery. “I will buy you a pony that has a pink tail and can talk” was one of my better offerings. No dice.
This kid wasn’t going to let us give her a bath- at least not without a fight. The peace talks had broken down and it was time to send in the riot troops.
So, we ran the bath and Mrs. H got in (my daughter can’t resist a bath with her mum, nor can I). I took my daughter’s diaper off and discovered that she had somehow done an absolutely massive, yet weirdly odorless, crap. Bollocks. And my wife was in the bath, so it fell to me.
In case you’re unaware, I don’t do shit diapers. It’s in my contract. You can read more about that here.
I carried her, kicking and flailing, to her room where I had to pin her to the changing pad and wipe her down. It wasn’t pretty- I ended up with poo all over my forearm and hands. Happy Father’s Day, suckah!
We strong armed her through the bathing and dressing, and got her into the car. Where she suddenly turned into “The Sweetest Little Two Year Old That Has Ever Walked The Face Of The Earth”. It was weird.
“We goin’ to Gwamama and Pop’s House? And Woof too!?” Angels sang harmonies in the background as the clouds parted.
“That’s right, Sweetie. Your cousin E.J. will be there too.” I couldn’t believe what was happening.
“E.J. too!?” she said with genuine excitement. Wow.
“Uh, yeah. E.J. too, Chooch.” as we drove off to Grandmama’s house.
For the rest of the night, she was the perfect, cute 2 year old playing with her cousin and being totally adorable. My in-laws weren’t at all surprised with the story of The Rebellion- they’ve met my daughter before and know first hand of her raw power.
I guess that wraps up this entry. I hope all you dads out there had a great day, too. Maybe without all the shitting though, eh?
There was one thing that Mrs. Huttsez pointed out as a “bad sign” from The Rebellion. Apparently, running into their rooms and dramatically slamming doors, whilst yelling “Go Away, Mum!”, is a commonly used technique amongst girls. My wife claims to have been a practitioner of this style herself, but not until she was a lot older. My daughter did it twice. She is two. Great.
That’s it for now.
If you follow me on twitter, I will buy you a pony with a pink tail that can talk.
If you go and “like” my facebook page, I will buy you a Unicorn that shits cupcakes.
Thanks for reading. See you soon.