We are standing in the kitchen trying to operate the coffee machine.
“Do you think Mila knows that some people are hairier than others?” asks Zsuzsa, through bleary eyes.
I ponder this question for a moment, my head pounding.
“That’s an excellent question.” I eventually reply.
“I mean, do you think she knows that you have more stubble than I do?” adds Zsuzsa, adding even more depth to this profound conundrum.
More pondering. Meanwhile we are making some serious headway with the coffee machine. We have located the ON button. Soon we will be knee-deep in glorious caffeine.
After a minute or so of careful, measured consideration I’m ready to deliver my verdict.
“I think the answer is 'yes'.”
Zsuzsa nods sagely, but then stops. She stares at me, her face now expressionless.
“What was the question again?” she asks.
My mind is blank.
“What question?” I reply.
We will later realise that we are in a state of sleep deprived delirium, and the most shameful part of this is that it was all self inflicted. "How so!?" I hear you bellow. Isn’t it obvious? It was all because I taught Mila how to blow raspberries.
Master of my own destruction
Let me explain. Mila, our 6 month old little cub, is delighted with her newfound raspberry blowing skill and has really thrown herself headlong in to her training, putting in some serious raspberry blowing hours. In fact she was blowing raspberries in our ears ALL NIGHT LONG, the cause of our sleep deprivation. I don’t know if any of you have ever tried to sleep next to a baby on a raspberry-blowing mega-binge, but I’m here to tell you that it’s a challenge. At least it was for me. On the rare moments that I did drop off, my dreams were soon invaded by a giant baby blowing raspberries on my belly, yanking me instantly back in to the land of the conscious.
Sweet brown nectar is now pouring from a spout into a mug. Soon we will get the caffeine hit that our poor brains are pleading for. Soon we will be nearly twenty percent awake. Soon we will be in a state to begin rueing. We will be rueing raspberries like no man, woman or animal has ever rued a raspberry before. We will also notice, for the first time in our lives, that raspberry has a 'p' in it and wonder if we've been saying it wrong all these years.
It’s later that day. Zsuzsa is in the bedroom with Mila.
“Honey! Honey! Come! Come quickly”, Zsuzsa excitedly snorts.
I come running.
“What!? What is it?” I ask.
“I think Mila said Apa!”
This may sound like gobbledygook to non-Hungarians, but it’s actually Hungarian for 'Dad'.
“Go on Mila!” says Zsuzsa. “Say Apa! Say Apa again!”
“I dare you! I double dare you mother fudger!” I add in my head, with visions of Samuel L. Jackson from Pulp Fiction swirling around.
Mila just looks at her mother, then at me, and then at her mother. Something then dawns on me.
“Why would she say Apa?" I ask. “I don’t call myself Apa. I call myself Daddy.”
“I call you Apa when you’re not here.”
Ah! I see. A cunning plot to make my daughter speak Hungarian before she speaks English. I make a mental note to up my game and whisper English in to her ear constantly when Zsuzsa isn’t around.
Mila makes a sound.
“See!” exclaims Zsuzsa excitedly.
I’m not convinced.
“It sounded more like ‘potato’.” I say. “Maybe she’s asking for some potato?”
Nobody speaks for about thirty seconds. The only sound is the feint sound of our brains grinding to a halt.
“I find it strange that fat is yellow.” exclaims Zsuzsa.
I look at her heavy eyelids.
Mila blows a raspberry.
“More coffee?” I ask.
“More coffee.”