Happily Ever After
My wife is concerned that I’m portraying our baby and parenthood in a negative light.
“You’re always going on about how tired you are, how much she cries, her poops, how she’s always hungry.” she protests. “She’s a very good girl and you don’t really get this across. And if you’re not complaining about our baby you’re poking fun at me! Sometimes I’m afraid to speak now for fear that it’ll end up in your blog!”
I’m wondering if this is the right time to tell my wife that she has a beetroot moustache. She’s just arrived back from a shopping trip, in which she purchased some beetroot juice (apparently it’s good for breastfeeding mothers due to it’s iron content). Such was her furious thirst to consume said beetroot juice, she opened it in the shop and took a swig. That’s when the moustache was spawned. She’s been walking around town with a beautiful purple moustache ever since. She looks a bit like her Dad. I decide that now is not the right time.
“Sorry honey.” I say. “I don’t mean to give the wrong impression. I’m just not sure how interesting it would be to read about how Mila has been a very good girl. I’ll bear it in mind though and try and at least finish on an upbeat note.”
The truth is that Mila is a smashing little cub. We do have the odd wobble, the odd sleepless night, the odd evening when we are afraid to breath for fear of detonating her, and the only music that I’ve heard for the last two month is from an album of Hungarian lullabies, but overall she’s a wonderful little girl and by all accounts much better behaved than her Daddy ever was. Apparently I never slept and came perilously close on several occasions to being flung out of a window! So basically, despite my occasional moan we’re blessed, overjoyed, couldn’t be happier and these last two months have been a dream.
I hear a shriek from the bathroom. My wife has just uncovered her moustache.
Later that day there’s a knock on our front door. It’s Mila’s masseuse. That’s right, she has her own personal masseuse. Who the hell does she think she is? Prince Charles?
While Mila has her knots kneaded and the stress removed from her miniature back, I look on with envy. I want my knots kneaded! Inspired by this, I call the local massage parlour and book an appointment.
Mila being a smashing little cub
A few hours later and I’m being escorted in to the massage room. The masseuse, thankfully speaks a little bit of English.
“Take your clothes off, but leave your panties on and lie face down on that table.” she says.
I decide that she is muddling her English as the alternative is that I look like the kind of guy who wears ladies panties under my civilian clothes. I remove my t-shirt and then my shorts. I look down at my underpants and my blood runs cold. I haven't thought this through.
Batman pants! I’m a forty year old father, about to be massaged by a lady that I’ve never met and I’m wearing my batman pants! Actually, I’m a forty year old father, about to be massaged by a lady that I’ve never met and I’m wearing batman pant that were bought for me by my grandma! I realise that I look ridiculous and now I’m feeling stressed.
There’s a knock on the door and the masseuse re-enters. At least I assume it’s the masseuse. I’m too embarrassed to show my face so I’ve decided that I’m simply going to bury my face in the massage table until this whole palaver is over. The old ostrich technique. Smarter than they look.
“Music?” the masseuse asks.
I grunt in approval.
At least we can now have some relaxing music to whisk me away to a far away place. The masseuse turns on the stereo. What will it be? Some Mozart? Some Enya? Peruvian panpipes? No, it’s The Lighthouse Family's Greatest Hits. Of course it is.
But I must confess that despite my ridiculous appearance and the occasion being soundtracked by the 1990’s musical duo, the masseuse knew what she was doing and the massage was wonderful. So in a break from tradition and to please my beloved wife, I’m finishing with a happy ending.
Get your minds out of the gutter people! I'm referring to the story.
My little lady and our even littler lady.