I'm typing this very gingerly today. My hands are so raw I feel like Freddie Krueger gave me a high five.
To explain (probably best I do) I need to recount the events of last night. It was my turn to collect Luca from nursery, so after the usual stock car rally-esque experience of driving through rush hour traffic to Inverurie I made it with seconds to spare (I play the "Mission Impossible" soundtrack on the car stereo as I get near). Luca grinned at a tetchy and perspiring Dad as I walked in and showed his affection by inadvertantly headbutting me as I picked him up.
After a quick trip home for tea ("Luca no eat soup, Luca wants chocolate") we took Sima down to a local park for a runaround. It also made a nice change away from Luca's burgeoning television addiction.
I'm not sure who burned off the most energy, the demented puppy or the Duracell toddler. Luca must have been on the vodka and red bull at nursery again as he was completely unstoppable as he charged around the park. We were there for over half an hour and he didn't stop running once.
The "drama" occurred when I decided it was time to get the wee man home. As we walked toward the edge of the park he had a naughty moment and started running toward the busy road. I hesitated for a second before realising he was showing no signs of stopping. Blind panic took over as I sprinted full pelt toward him - he was 20 yards ahead with onlly 5 yards left until he hit the road. I broke Usain Bolts record as I caught him up only to find my relief at this instantly replaced by a secondary panic. As I tried to slow down and grab him the ground gave way underneath my feet and I watched, almost in slow motion, as both legs left the ground. Luca became a blur behind me as my back side hit the floor, followed quickly by my hands. My forward momentum took me out onto the busy road as my hands desperately tried to grip the pavement. Thankfully I was able to stop and drag myself back onto the pavement just before the next batch of traffic zoomed past.
As I sat on the pavement inspecting my bloodied and shaking hands Luca sauntered up beside me. His game of running toward the road had ended when his Dad did his "drunk Superman" impression. He looked at me wincing, put his hand on my shoulder and announced "Daddy's got an owey"
After learning a few new swear words from his Dad we made our way back into the park where he, rather sweetly to be fair, sat alongside me as I tried to remove the worst of the grit and stones from the inside of my hand.
It was at this point he heard noises coming from the adjacent football pitch. "What's that noise Daddy?" he enquired. "Football" I muttered, "You don't like football". "Luca likes football" he retorted. I stared quizzically at him, remembering all the times he's whined at me when I've put "Sky Sports" on the TV. "OK then" I eventually said "Do you want to go and watch?". "Yes, lets go!" he shouted before grabbing the sorest part of my hand and dragging me toward the sound of the game.
Unbelievably he loved it. We were there for quite some time and he watched the match intently. "Come on" he shouted frequently (I think he heard one of the coaches shout this) "Score!". He actually seems to understand the point of the game too, as he excitedly (and without prompting) shouted "Goal!" when the team in red scored.
I don't think his Mum was too pleased as we returned home long after his bedtime. He regaled her with his experience as she tried to calm him down for bed. Thankfully he'd charmed her by the time his head went down to sleep, so we settled down with a nice movie - "The Killing Room". A rather nasty phsychological horror, and as the title suggested it (like Ronseal) did exactly what it said on the tin.
**Useless fact of the day - A female ferret can die if she goes into heat and cannot find a mate**
No comments:
Post a Comment