Fatherhood is a game of fine margins. Things can escalate quickly. One minute I can be dreaming of my Dad of the Year award and the next I am in my underpants and on my knees, scouring pools of puke off the kitchen floor. Which is what happened last Sunday.
As with most of my parenting catastrophes it all began when my wife went out and left me on my own with the boys. She had decided to run a few errands. After having children the errand takes on a new appealing status, almost like a leisure activity. A trip alone to retrieve a package from the postal depot becomes an opportunity to relax and regroup, sourcing cable connectors from Homebase is now the chance for a carefree saunter among the aisles.
So Mum was in a far-off supermarket when the Major let me know that he would like a snack. And because the Minor is currently performing as a tiny tribute act to his older brother, he asked for a snack as well. So I diligently peeled two satsumas, broke them into segments and served them to the boys in individual bowls.
The Major chowed down but the Minor, a keen fruitarian normally, pushed his helping away. With my paternal intuition I deduced that he was tired and he needed a nap. I warmed him up a bottle of milk and ferried him upstairs to his bedroom. While he was slurping away I pondered what bodily science is at work that allows a child to readily go down for a morning snooze having woken from his nightly slumbers a few hours before, yet another six or seven hours after that will always takes a lot more persuasion.
Perhaps the Minor took exception to my assumption that he would immediately drop off because he began to wriggle off my lap, point downstairs and say “downstairs”. Which meant he wanted to go downstairs.
In our absence the Major had finished his satsuma. Unsated, he had clearly been eyeing up his brother’s portion but waited to make his move until the very moment that we re-appeared. My sons have become very territorial about their possessions, like a couple of young dog-foxes spraying on trees. I believe that the Minor didn’t really want that satsuma. Or care that there was a whole pyramid of them in the kitchen. It seemed that the sight of his brother snaffling what was rightfully his sickened him to his core.
His reaction was a fierce protest of screaming and tears. I tried to reason with him. What I should have been doing was urgently sourcing a better alternative to a satsuma, probably a biscuit. But the wailing became more dramatic and eventually, perhaps inevitably, he was sick.
I am becoming paranoid that my sons are conspiring against me. I deal with a lot of sick. It’s as if they’ve evolved a special additional chamber in their gut, permanently filled with sick which can be triggered whenever I’m sole-parenting. Presumably as a strategy to ensure that their mother doesn’t leave them too often.
So I was covered in the stuff and hence down to my pants. To make matters worse the Major had assumed some blame and was guiltily trying to hook out the half-chewed satsuma with his finger. Regurgitation in it all forms was happening around me, in full cinematic Technicolor. It was a vomnishambles. As I say, things can escalate quickly.