The Monk has a 3-week holiday from toddler group, due to half term. This is fantastic news on the health front, as it means we're much less likely to contract repeated bouts of toddler lurgy. It's not so great when it comes to knackering the hyperactive little sod out, however; he now attempts to actually jump out of the living room window, shrieking with delight and too much fruit puree. He must be the only kid I know who gets a sugar rush from fucking baby food.
For such a small kid who isn't walking unaided - he still looks like a baby next to the others - Gabriel asserts himself in grand style at playgroup. Bitches in law enforcement outfits on the mini trampoline? No sweat, he'll just grab that sucker by the ankle and fling him into next week. At least, that's how The Monk visualises it: in reality, the kid already on the trampoline has learned to share (an alien concept for my pigheaded loin-fruit), and his mother happens to be watching, so he better be nice to the yelling tot currently trying to displace him, or he'll be facing mama-wrath come hometime.
|"Fuck tha police, mama. That trampoline gon' be mine."|
Aside from my son discovering entitlement, it's been one hell of an emotional week, folks. My darling niece got married to her lovely husband (now Shiny New Nephew) on Friday, The Monk indulged in some hardcore flirting (and tantrums. Can't forget those), and mama got drunk. Dreadfully, awfully drunk.
I'll keep this post short, as the wedding, the revelry and the subsequent falling over all deserve a post of their own. I'll attempt that one on a day where I've consumed nothing but fruit tea and Omega-3 capsules. Safe to say, I was an horrifically embarrassing, blubbering disgrace of an auntie who probably should've said an emphatic "No, thank you" to the free champagne. But I didn't, and that's how all the best stories start.
I'll leave you with The Monk, suited and booted and trying his best to seduce a cougar.
|"How you doin'?"|