This year I set out to write about seeing the priceless joys in everything, and feeling like a millionaire, regardless of circumstances. Today I have a hurdle, and so the challenge is set: can I find humour and happy things amidst the fact that I’ve not seen or been able to speak to my little boy over Easter?
I’m opting for letter form I think. Ok, here we go:
I am sorry I have been unable to get through to you on the phone – I just wanted to say I miss you.
I miss helping you to complete the wiping of your bottom after a pooh, especially when you admit “it’s a bit runny today” and I have to scrub away at the pooh stripes that are baked onto your back and bum cheeks, from your attempts at wiping your bottom.
I miss how you crawl into my bed every night and grip onto me like a koala bear, then making yourself so hot that you trigger your eczema then scratch vigorously for hours, bashing me with your elbows whilst doing it. I miss that you then escape from my body heat, and the duvet, and reposition yourself lying on my head. And then snore, sleep talk and drool onto my pillow. I miss that you then wake me up at 6am to ask me questions like ‘How did Jesus get into God’s tummy?’ And ‘What is at the end of space?’
I miss that you won’t put your coat on without having a huge meltdown and shouting about how much you hate coats – mainly because “they are too warm”. I miss resorting to the ‘time out’ spot on a daily basis, over Coat-gate arguments.
I miss your current obsession with your CD of dated party hits, and you vibrating the walls of the house by blasting ‘Bang Bang’ as soon as I go in the shower. I miss your dance moves to Little Mix and your tone deaf accompaniment to 5SOS when you think I can’t hear or see you.
I miss your obsession with using baby wipes instead of washing your hands with water – and your need to pull 12 out the packet at once, pass them from one hand the other and think that this constitutes the recommended 7 step hand washing routine.
I miss your sudden crying at the dinner table because you’ve decided, after 4 years of loving Broccoli, that it is “horrid”.
I miss your obsession with toilet humour and the need to call me “Mr Pooh Pooh Head”.
I miss your need to use my face cream liberally and to investigate the contents of my make-up bag – ensuring you ram the lid onto fully erected lipsticks. I miss hearing “whoops”.
I miss your honesty with your mishaps, such as “Mummy, I’ve spilt my drink again, and this time it’s gone on some electrics…”
I miss your selective hearing – I miss asking you 8 times to get your shoes on and getting nothing back, but then getting an immediate response when I use the same tone to say “just to let you know I’m off now – I’m going to ride on Thomas the Tank engine”. I also miss the times I forget to use humour and shout “why aren’t you listening to me?! It’s infuriating!!”
I miss the fact that when we ring Daddy each night, so that you can read to him over the phone, you insist on choosing the Usborne book of the human body. I miss awkwardly helping you read words like ‘anus’, ‘birthing canal’ and ‘pubic bone’.
Today I missed seeing that everything has a sunshine side, but this has now been restored by writing this letter to you.
Love Mr Pooh Pooh Head xx