My son is a collector. Unfortunately we aren’t talking
antiques or Chapel Street Bazaar or even something you could sell on IWBSS. My
son loves collecting crap.
When we go out my pockets are quickly filled as I am
handed miscellaneous goods such as rocks, sticks, lolly wrappers, and most
recently a condom packet. Disgusting. But so sweet that he cares for the
environment and wants to clean up Australia. Good on ya Alfie.
We are regulars at a local park and love kicking back in
the sandpit and doing the playground activity lap (even though I am extremely
challenged by it). We take props such as a bucket and spade, a truck or even a
little car to push around and make brrrm sounds with. It’s bliss, especially if
there’s a group of young men playing basketball on the courts. Fresh air and
park life = brilliant.
There’s one problem though. Every time we go to this one
particular park, Alfie goes straight for the waist strap on the baby swing –
you know the one, the safety chain thing covered in clear plastic that you clip
around your kid’s tummy. He goes straight for the strap and sucks on it. Hard.
It’s really foul and each time he does it a little vomit forms in the back of
my throat.
I mean, it’s not like he isn’t well fed and that I don’t
have a fabulous array of snacks in my backpack soaked in water from the leaking
sippy cup. It’s not like there isn’t a variety of sticks and leaves and other
‘natural’ items available he can put in his mouth. I offer all of the above and
pick him up and take him away from the strap and he LOSES it. Face down on the
grass slamming his fists and feet into the ground. How dare I. He gets back up
and runs for the strap. Gross. I repeat the actions above. Then I give up and
let him suck at it.
After about five minutes he gets bored. I’m sitting on
the edge of the sandpit waiting for him, trying to hold back my vomit from the
strap sucking. Finally he comes around and hangs out with me in the ‘pit
passing me bits of sticks and leaves.
We dig a hole. He has a snack. He tries to put the snack
in my mouth, yum. Whatever. We dig some more of the hole. I’m distracted by my
phone beeping and I check out a text. He pushes some more of his muesli bar in
my mouth. I eat it. Whatever. He goes back to his hole and I start responding
to the text message. He pushes something into my mouth. I bite into it thinking
it’s the muesli bar but it’s not. It’s a crusty sun-bleached dog shit.
I spit. I squeal and dry wretch. I’m scraping the inside
of my mouth and pulling out everything except my tongue. My hand is covered in
sand and the texture is making everything worse. The cool mums wearing puffer
vests around the edge of the sandpit are staring at me over their soy lattes.
Then it happens. I’ve dry wretched so much that I start convulsing. I can’t
stop thinking about the poo. I’m horrified. I spew in my kid’s sand bucket.
I get my shit together, realign and refocus. I’m a mum. I
sort myself out. I’ve got to. People, including my son, are watching.
I look at my little boy sitting in the massive hole we’ve
dug together. He’s laughing at his car as he pushes it through the sand.
Perhaps he didn’t notice my behaviour. I
pick him up to put him in the SuperTrike and I notice there’s something in his
mouth. It’s another piece of the white crusty turd and he’s chewing on it. I
try to fish it out. It’s so gross.
We wheel home with our pooey mouths and spewy bucket,
through Yarraville village passing all the parents who look so together. I
decide to grab a coffee and when I pull out money from my parka pocket, the
miscellaneous condom packet falls out.
Seriously unfair.
This post first appeared on
Bubba West.
