"A girl needs a gun these days, hey on account of all the rattlesnakes," continued Rory, breaking off from sliding a piece of toast and jam down the back of the radiator to join in.
You know it's been a long, wet summer when your 3 year old is quoting Lloyd Cole back to you. Too much time spent stuck in the house doing Spiderman jigsaws and listening to old CDs instead of running about in the sunshine has taken it's toll and we are bored.
Well, I'm bored anyway, I can't speak for Rory. He seems to get an endless amount of joy out of playing cars and dressing up in my shoes.
When I first had a baby, I assumed that I'd never have an excuse to be bored again. There's so many things that you can do with a child, and due to all my experience teaching small children, I convinced myself that I would do them all. And do them all, we have.
Today, for example, we have:
* Played on the swings
* Posted stuff at the post office
* Made biscuits
* Eaten all the biscuits
* Played in the paddling pool
* Done some colouring in
* Played an educational number game
* Ignored each other
* Worn our pants on our heads (OK, this one was mainly Rory)
* Removed every cushion from the sofa and made a hazardous den
* Watched too much TV
* Done sponge painting
* Rocked out on the V-tech plastic guitar and keyboard
* Poked the toad that lives behind our shed with a stick
* Attempted to make jelly worms.
Brief aside: Saw this tutorial online and thought it looked brilliant:
That kind of sounds like fun, right? And when I decided to be a stay at home mum until he started school and do the odd bit of work from home, my reasoning was that in the future I'd want to remember that I spent all this time having fun with my child and nurturing him and being a fabulous mum rather than sticking him in nursery and letting someone else do it. And in the future I'm quite certain that I will feel this way. Those rose tinted glasses are pretty convincing. It's just that at the moment, I don't feel like doing any of the above. What I really feel like doing is jumping (child free) on the train to the nearest city, downing a lot of expensive and imaginatively named cocktails in a bar and seducing the attractive, young barman out the back behind the bins. Actually, I don't really care about the bins. Bins are not really a feature of this fantasy, they're just there to add colour. It is good to add a multi-sensory aspect to one's writing, you know. Also, my husband would do in the absence of an attractive young barman.
Because here's the thing - in years to come, I doubt very much that my son will say "remember that day with the squirrels and the swings and the toad and the sponge painting?" Because when you stay at home with your child, all those supposedly fun filled days sort of merge into one. And when you've poked one toad, you've poked them all, you know? Whereas, I'd definitely remember seducing someone behind a pub these days. Although I could probably craft some sort of pithy analogy from the toad poking thing relating to that scenario if I really thought about it. Too busy making playdough snakes though. Poignant.