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.