Poor old DB1. He was not a well little bunny yesterday. I blearily noticed that he felt like a little hot water bottle when he wriggled into our bed at 5:30am, but it was only when we actually went downstairs for breakfast that I fully clocked the bright red cheeks, the poorly pallor and the hacking cough. I did feel sorry for him.
Not that this didn’t mean that he didn’t make rather a meal of it. ‘Got a nasty cough,’ he announced woefully, fixing big Bambi eyes at me and gesturing at the snack pot. ‘got a nasty cough.’. I must have heard this announcement about fifty times throughout the day. Couldn’t help me tidy up…he had a nasty cough. Couldn’t eat his lunch…he had a nasty cough. (funny though, he was quite ok with the custard afterwards.) I must admit, I started to get a little weary of the announcement of ‘nasty coughs’ by the end of the day…
Fortunately, in true DB1 style, he went for a nap (most unlike him), and then miraculously got better again. Honestly, if I hadn’t actually witnessed him being born, I’d swear he was some sort of bionic kid. Illness just seems to roll off him in a matter of minutes. Gastroenteritis when 6 months old? 4 hours that lasted. Soaring temperature of over 40c when a year old? That one lasted about 30 minutes. Then he was fine. OH and I will catch a bug and be struck down for ages. Our two year old son catches the same bug and makes us somehow feel like we’re really hamming it up and making a right old fuss over nothing. DB2 seems to be following the same format. Obviously I’m delighted they are so bonny and healthy, but christ, their hale and heartiness does make me feel doubly more aged and decrepit by comparison.
So today, being back on top form, DB1 was chomping at the bit for some serious play time. OH took DB2 off to the garden centre whilst I made Christmas cards with DB1. That lasted…ten minutes? This is fairly typical of him. Ten minutes of frantic frenzied activity, spraying the kitchen with glitter, tissue paper, glue and crayons, then pushing it to one side and announcing he was ‘all done’. We then proceeded to similar frenetic Play Doh manipulation, before cracking on with playing with his animals. Again, a rouse to make me feel ancient…wearing me out in under an hour.
So we took him to see Father Christmas. Ha ha. Love it. It’s amazing, isn’t it. A man from the north pole, with a perfect Dorset accent.
‘what would ye like fer Christmas?’ he enquired of DB1, sitting slumped in a potting shed, bizarrely wearing his moustache on his chin. I found myself suspiciously looking around to see if this Santa had been at the Christmas brandy a little ahead of time. Certainly his slight slur and tremoring hand seemed to indicate so.
Danny looked vaguely frightened. He was probably panicked that this mad bloke was going to insist he sat on his lap.
The father Christmas started making suggestions.
‘A tractor?’ he asked.
‘Yes. A tractor.’ DB1 agreed helpfully.
Only in Dorset. Only in Dorset would the first present to come to mind be a sodding tractor. These yokels, honestly.
A few more awkward minutes later, with DB1 edging closer and closer to the door, clutching his present to his chest and glancing desperately at me as though to say ‘come on mother, we’ve got the goods, let’s run while we still can’, and we were free to go, though not before Father Christmas had further embarrassed himself by searching for something of apparent importance- only for it to turn out to be a mouldy looking carrot (for the reindeers apparently- whose names he had printed out on a laminated card next to him…presumably to help his booze addled brain remember…).
We left with a mixture of relief and extreme amusement…