|"Got my eye on you, kiddo."|
Shit's getting tough, now that Monk's walking. The TV stand is a source of endless fascination for him, especially the Sky box. He manages to record programmes (usually some mildly distressing crap involving televangelists, the freak) completely by accident, and then play them back over and over and OVER again, and d'you think mama's got that shizz figured out yet? Does she buggery. I can barely change the channel successfully without throwing a tanty. He stands there, merrily pressing all the buttons he can get his sticky little fingers on, so we've pretty much given up trying to watch anything on TV now. We only get 'Eastenders' punctuated by overexcited pastors who WANT-AH your MONEY-AH PRAISE THA LAWD!!!!
It's a pity that he hasn't quite got to grips with the whole sofa dismounting thing though. As soon as he got bored with licking the window and smooshing his open mouth onto it like some kind of simpleton goldfish, he started looking for a way down. The concentration on his face was something to behold as he stared at the seat, then at the floor, and back again. He formulated a cunning plan, and I grabbed the popcorn. This gon' be GOOD.
So off he goes. I watch in paralysed fascination as he inches forward on his bum, peeps over the edge... and fucking bellyflops to the floor. He sounds like a boulder being dropped from a first-floor window. I finally manage to make my legs work and run to scoop him up, just as the window-rattling howl of injustice escapes from his gummy little mouth. Gabriel often forgets to breathe when he's in full wailing mode, which I like to call "The Carla Bruni Effect". His entire body goes bright pink and rigid, his mouth gapes open cartoon-fashion, the tears start brimming in his eyes, his little fists shake and he stays like that for a good 10-20 seconds before he unleashes the crying beast (along with a stream of babble that might be swearing, I can't tell). Thank THA LAWD!!!! he can't talk yet. I get the feeling he's going to be bloody verbal when he's pissed off.
His first word, I'm almost certain, will be "MINE." I can see it in his eyes. Carpet cleaner? Mine. Contents of mama's bag? Once emptied onto the carpet and given the taste test (including receipts and keys), mine. Empty yogurt pot? Got my name on it, lady. The game ejected out of the Wii while Daddy wasn't looking? I OWN that shit, at least until I snap it in half, in which case it's Mama's and I had nothing to do with it. You get the picture.
Wow, I can really go on - I've just read this back to myself and all I can see is a pixellated ream of shit. Probably where The Monk gets it from. Later, kids - I'm off to fling myself off the sofa and send all my money to some religious nutjobs. You've been a great crowd, I'm here all week. Don't rush to applaud or anything, okay?