Ham Rod for My Own Back

She's walking in the air

She’s walking in the air

We had a really lovely weekend with The Boss back on his weekly commute: we went to the village fete and let the minxes run riot on the bouncy castle, bouncy slide, spinning teacups and facepaint. The next day we went to Wester Hardmuir PYO farm for me to run riot on the trampoline and let the kids loose on the playground and picking strawberries. We demolished donuts and icecream and strawberries on different days. We even managed to do a quick practise mega-behemoth-tent erection to check it was all fine from last year (it was).

All too soon The Boss had to pack his little car and set off back eastwards. An exhausted Midi was already asleep, whilst Mini and Maxi were too busy screeching and building dens out of their bedclothes to notice that he was leaving. I waved goodbye to him alone from their bedroom.

Predictably, they were distraught when they realised. Hopefully this will be the last week that we have to separate the family, but if not, then maybe they’ll realise that when I say, “He’s going, come and wave now. Right now!” that I’m not messing around.

I mooned around a very big, empty house for a bit, then on a whim decided to start making that massive, long dress out of Ikea curtain fabric. Four pattern pieces to cut out twice each, over 6m of fabric. I’m a beginner sewer – ulp!

Around midnight, as I was thinking about stopping, I heard the distinctive sound of Midi storming from her bed to mine; a confused pause; then a thundering to the top of the stairs and pointless tiptoeing down them. She stood in the doorway, her beautiful big green eyes filling her sleepy face, wanly asking if Daddy had gone yet. I should have ushered her wordlessly to bed. We’ve had a problem for the last 3 years of her waking most nights and disturbing me. I’ve tried different things. Tonight, though, I thought: sod it all! Just this once. She’s my little 5 year old, she’s missing her Daddy, and I know how to make her feel better.

“Do you feel hungry, Midi?” I asked her. She looked confused. This wasn’t the Get.To.Your.Bed.Now she got every night, or the Sound Ignoring.

“Yes! Starving!” she smiled, suddenly impish. “But my throat hurts”. Mini’s had a sticky green nose for a few days and Midi was obviously under the weather this evening, so I believed her.

I rootled around for some calpol. Because all the different equivalents all seem to have different dosages, I studied the label – and had to hold it further away from my tired eyes than I’m used to, to focus (damn… turning into an auld gimmer).

“Five”, Midi said.

Eh? What?

“Five. I’m five. You always ask me my age when you give me medicine.” Aye, auld and losing my memory!

I made us both a big ham sandwich on oat and spelt bread, spread thick with butter, and slices of cucumber. Big plastic beaker each of milk. We sat side by side, comfortably silent, troughing our delicious midnight feast. Silent except for the occasional mischievous snigger or stifled giggle. Partners in crime, me and my wee girl.

Don’t grass me up to the Parenting Police, will you? Or worse: Maxi.

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