Last Friday I sat by Baby D’s cot as he shuffled about trying to find a comfortable position for the night, and realised that it was Oxygen weekend. After a medley of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’, ‘Yellow Submarine’ and ‘Ten Green Bottles’, I sat down with a cup of tea and complained to Hubbie that I should have been in a field rocking out to Arcade Fire drinking beer.
“Ah we’re too old for that malarkey anyway,” he said as he removed the ‘Mozart for Babies’ CD from the stereo. In fact now that I think of it we were probably too old for Oxygen the last time we ventured down, drinking lattes and trying to read the Sunday Times on the bus as the 13 year olds behind us discussed the deadly buzz they had and how many cans they could knock back before security.
The deadliest buzz I get these days is the adrenaline rush when I manage to sneak out of Baby D’s room without waking him up. Cars, trucks and sirens can blare past outside his window but the tiniest creak of the floorboard in his room is enough to snap him into full alert. So currently it takes us ten minutes to get him asleep and another 20 to leave the room. Hubbie has taken to crawling out while I employ a series of maneouvres similar to that balancing thing the Karate Kid did for Mr Miyagi. What we really need is the contraption Tom Cruise used to lower himself from the ceiling in ‘Mission Impossible’. I might look on eBay in case the spies arrested in the States recently had a chance to flog some of their stuff before being shipped back to Russia.
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