I’m no longer permitted to sit on the couch. This is official as of 5PM yesterday. The toddler has annexed it and screams if I try to sit down. The call of “no” rattles through our suburb, scaring bird, bat and the Uber Eats guy that always seems to be standing in the foyer looking lost.
“Where can I sit then?” I stupidly ask.
It points down the hall to my office “you go work da. Go work.”
“But I’ve been working all day” I daftly respond, as if I’m talking to some kind of boss.
“You work. Da.”
She’s probably right though. But I’m not so dumb to leave this thing alone long enough as it will do something stupid. But, having said that; I’ve never seen it step on LEGO, set off the smoke alarm while cooking, cut itself with the big knife or fall down the stairs. All of those things that happen to me on a regular basis.
But back to the couch. What hurts the most, is that she now sits on my side. The side that was best for telly viewing. The side closet to the kitchen fridge and the beer. The side I rocked her to sleep on when she was first born and all squishy and weird looking. The side I sat on through a couple of long nights as I watched all the seasons of Father Ted so her poor mum could get some much needed sleep. The wife then took over for the next couple of years, but I sacrificed man. It was my side of the couch. Where I landed after a day on set and hassled the wife for a foot rub. A leg rub. A… you get the point.
I feel betrayed. I’ve already lost my telly to the toddler and now I can’t sit on my side of the couch! Having ones own side of the couch has always been an important part of my world and now it has been lost to a tyrant that hasn’t been in the world as long as I spent in frigging stage combat school. Yes. Stage combat school. One never knows when they’ll be called upon to hit someone with a sword or a large stick in the interest of film, television or theatre.
I have realised I am a living, breathing remote control.
“Da! Nannas! Da! Peppa Pig! More Peppa Pig! Da! More Peppa Pig,” and then follows the oink noises.
Dutiful Da switches channels better than any vision switcher in history. I don’t need to even look at the telly or the remote. My sub-conscious simply knows how to work my fingers as the toddler commands. I’m sure the toddler already knows what to do as she actively calls her grandmothers on FaceTime. She knows how to use the I-pad (somehow) so figuring out a remote must be easy.
Its latest oddness is refusing to put clothes on. Yesterday, the toddler decided it wasn’t quite ready for a nappy to be applied or her singlet. I’ve been here before and I know how to handle this, “all good, you just let me know when you want your nappy on,” says the all-knowing moron. It agrees and I feel as though we connected. I hold out my paw for it to take, thinking we just shared a moment. It thinks about it, laughs and drops into crawl mode. It then proceeds to crawl out of the bedroom and down the hall, naked toddler cheeks waging in the air like a sauntering cartoon cat.
One cannot force the clothing thing as all hell breaks lose. I give her choice over her choices and then try to circumvent the toddler’s choices by being sneaky – just like the LNP.
The toddler and I have spent the last 3 nights together as the wife is off doing her various acting things – at least that’s what she tells me she’s doing. She could be hustling pool in a Chinese dive bar for all the checking up I do.
The toddler has been told that come 8PM (if it isn’t asleep as it should be), dad is watching the State of Origin and Peppa Pig will be on the grill (oh no you didn’t). By default she’ll be cheering for The Maroons.
It’s running in circles at the moment.
Fun Fact: It runs in circles when it’s crazy tired.
Danny Matier 