You know how some babies have a tough time teething? They upset their tummies chewing rubbish, have fevers, dribble all over the place... but you know the kind of thing I mean. If you're a parent, you know only too well. And The Bhablet? He goes suicidal.
For the last three days I've suspected teeth in the offing. He is rather fond of biting me but he has stepped it up once more. Nothing escapes those six little pearly whites. He won't bite his teethers (of course -- I imagine that they are manufactured only to prove to despairing parents that it's not true that babies will bite everything) but the rest of the world and its contents are fair game. Speaking of game, I understand I'm a toothsome morsel. At least The Bhablet thinks so. Because he bites me way more often than he does his father. (Yes, V, he does.) And he's taken to drooling all over the place once more, so I suppose this will go on for a while now.
I can only assume that this madness is what made him do it. See, I went to watch this play last night. And while I was away The Bhablet went and pulled our tv on himself. For the first time ever I was grateful we have a tiny thing, a 12" Phillips Powervision, a nice, lightweight affair. The idiot boy pulled it off the table, which, luckily, was low, and fell himself, sideways, so that the tv only bumped him on his right knee. Which is still somewhat swollen and has three little cuts on it.
All day he (Rahul, not V) has been in a mad sort of mood. Doing one silly thing after another. Doing all the things he knows is expressly forbidden. While he was having his bath this morning he pulled out the bathtub plug. Since I had pretty much trained him out of even attempting it -- or so I thought -- I was caught unawares. If only he were a little bit older, I would certainly make him clean up the messes he makes! And the child insists, absolutely insists on galloping all over the house, despite being unable to put weight on one knee. So he dashes from room to room on two hands and a knee.
Yes, imagine it and feel my pain. Obviously, his own pain doesn't seem to bother him much so I've decided to focus on how it hurts me to see my disgustingly active little quadruped reduced to only three limbs. Do my feelings count for nothing in this house? A year ago, when the stars in my eyes dimmed (greatly aided by the sleepless nights) I got the feeling that either R or I would survive his childhood, not both. And now the feeling is becoming a positive belief.
When I came home yesterday, after the cuddling and the careful examination, when I found out that he had got off far easier than he deserved, I was ready to murder him. How dare he? Did I put up with eight months of agony, depression and public humiliation only so that he could go and throw tvs on himself? Is that why I massage and moisturise and bathe and soap and clean that little body? How dare he, is what I want to know. If anything needs to be done to him, especially any kind of hurt inflicted, I'll see to it and with pleasure, thank you very much. But nobody else better even try and by that I mean you, Rahul.
But I suppose that is what you get when you bear the child of an idiot who tore open his arm, smashed open his forehead and did other such interesting things. And no, he didn't tell me all these stories before the marriage. I think I want my money back.