It is a beautiful calm moment in the hectic rush of the weekly grocery shop. The Norwegian is out at a head wetting getting – I hoped- suitably drunk. I had decided to improve the shinning hour by getting the weekly shop done. Brownie points all round.
I manage well, getting bananas, plums and coriander from greengrocers, corn-fed, happy chicken thighs and gourmet sausages from the butchers, a nice dry Riesling from the bottle shop, and loo roll and milk from the supermarket. The Boy behaves marvelously throughout so I decide to go to the little cafe and get myself a cuppa and The Boy a blueberry smoothie.
All is going well, the smoothie has gone down a treat, while I sip tea and flick through an 18-month old copy of In Style Magazine. I realise the magazine is older than my son and have a little laugh to myself. The Boy starts to squawk a bit.
Hungry, I think. I bet he is probably hungry. So I rifle through my supply of snacks (aka food-based bribes) and choose a yoghurt pouch. A handy little healthy snack – I think. Though I did remind myself to be careful as The Boy sometimes throws these pouches and can make a bit of a mess.
But he slurps away quite happily and lulled into a false sense of security I flick over another page of the magazine to discover that the way to hide a boyish frame is to find a bikini with frills.Nice to know.
I look up and see The Boy has gripped the yoghurt pouch tightly in one fist which he has pulled back far behind his head. His mouth is set into a line of grim determination.
‘Nooooooo’ I cry and reach ineffectually for his hand. But before I get there, as if in slow motion, he flings his arm forward still holding onto the pouch. I look behind me. A four meter long arc of yoghurt is splattered along the wall, sofa, and a series of tasteful framed photos.
I stare for a moment hoping that the yoghurt won’t stain the sofa, or the wallpaper when I hear,
‘Oh no! I’m totally covered in yoghurt.’
I look up to see a middle-aged man sitting at the tail end of the yoghurt arc, looking down at himself with an expression of horror.
He was not amused.
The Boy I, Mama 0.
Jim and I became helpless with laughter as we read this. Mind you we are also proud of our grandson’s throwing arm. Future Olympic dreams float into our minds! Jim is thinking cricket and I am thinking discus.