Mummy, there’s a dwarf in the bath!Posted: September 18, 2011 | |
Family life is surreal sometimes. At one point this morning, my three-year-old son was a giant, kidnapping plastic figures from a doll’s house and taking them to a fire station. They later returned, one by one, on a cheap toy boat.
During the same game, I was the voice of Daddy (a faded plastic figure with vivid blue eyes and an improbable side parting) and my daughter was the voice of Mummy (also plastic with vivid blue eyes, and sporting a lovely flowery skirt). Daddy had been up all night, taking four different children to the toilet. Then Mummy said she wanted the toilet.
“You can go by yourself,” said Daddy.
“I’ve done a poo on the floor,” said Mummy, shortly before she trod in that same poo and began to jump up and down on their bed.
The naming of the characters was, as always with my two kids, an experience in itself. At first, the names were quite sensible. One girl was called Sophie and her baby sister was named Ella. Baby Sam also had a nice, normal name. Then came Colin. A girl called Colin.
So that was all very entertaining. In fact, the game brought out the child in me, and I have to confess I was rather ‘immature’. I found it particularly entertaining to hide random small toys in the bath. Not our real bath, I should add. We were playing with my daughter’s new doll’s house – a huge, second-hand toy mansion, which we’d given her for her sixth birthday.
First in the bath was a frog, followed by a spider and a miniature dinosaur. Much hilarity. When my daughter’s back was next turned, I delved into the toy box again and found some of the Seven Dwarves. Bashful found his way into the tub. Play had moved on to something else by this time, and he remained in the bath for quite some time. It wasn’t until I left the crime scene that the action kicked off. I was in the kitchen pouring a coffee when I heard the scream.
“Mummy, there’s a dwarf in the bath!”
My baffled wife rushed to the scene as I sniggered, then chortled, then guffawed. I do amuse myself.
“Daddy…” my daughter said, in that eye-rolling, disapproving way that only six-year-old girls are truly capable of.
Am I, a 35-year-old man with a shaved head, too childish to play with my own infants?
It seems not. The offence forgotten, I was soon back in the midst of life in Doll Towers, partly as plastic Daddy and partly as real Daddy, the one who has to intervene when Makka Pakka from In The Night Garden suddenly turns up and starts trashing the immaculately arranged toy furniture.
You’ll be pleased to know that Mummy and Daddy kissed and made up after the ‘poo on the bedroom floor’ incident, and happily posed for this picture with Ella. Colin declined to take part.