Monday 11th July 2016, 4:30pm
I love him but I sometimes want to strangle him. Erroll, why on earth would you rip through our bedroom door, which creaks even when gently opened, to let me know you are off to the gym – which I knew anyway – when I was attempting to put our super light sleeper down for his afternoon nap??!!
Disaster the instant Erroll came in, as Kingsley sits up like a meerkat, eyes open, literally smelling his dad, interested to know if his Bah-Báh is ready for playtime. He hadn’t been down for more than 20 minutes…and it was all over. I shush Erroll, wave him away, whisper in my crankiness hushed voice to not close shut our super loud bedroom door (bloody hinges, I can’t stand you), then am left to deal with a toddler with a second wind and ready for action. Meanwhile Erroll moonwalks out of the bedroom, exits our apartment and skips off to gym.
All quite innocent on Erroll’s part, I know (I get it: wanting to ‘keep me in the loop’ of when he was leaving). But still, now I am irritated because I can’t be dealing with this fifty degree Celsius Dubai heat to take the little man out to play, so am channeling the worst mother out there by plonking Kingsley in front of the iPad and tuning him into bad Greek cartoons. Plus as sure as clockwork, I will have to manage the expectations of a tired little man who is confused as to why he is not having the greatest time and indeed is rubbing his eyes.
Am giving Kingsley (read: myself) at max two hours before a meltdown, so off I go now to prepare a) a lavish roast chicken and b) a lecture for when Erroll comes home, before giving him a cheeky kiss and serving him up his favourite: breast.