“You never listen.” My wife says.
“That’s not true.” I say, pained by the injustice of her accusation. “I try really hard to listen. It’s just… you say so much.”
It’s this kind of moronic statement which gets me into my wife’s bad books. And, if I’m honest, she’s not entirely wrong. My mind wonders. My lack of mental focus is one of the reasons I’m not an astronaut or a brain surgeon. One of the many, many reasons.
It’s hard to pay attention to everything my son says, too. He’s spends quite a lot of time trying to bemuse me with strange statements while I’m trying to concentrate on something else.
“Daddy!” He says, voice raised. “Daddy!… Daddy!… Daddy!… Daddy!… Daddy!… Daddy!…”
“What?” I ask, startled, the vocal earlobe-flicking he is inflicting on me finally derailing my train of thought. “What is it, son?”
“What’s on my bottom?” He asks.
I blink at him. I try to process what he’s said, my brain still half in what I was doing before. “Err… what?”
“What’s on my bottom?” He asks again.
“Err…” I’m still not really listening. “Err… I don’t know, mate. Err… are you all right?”
“All right then. Good boy.” He wanders off. I go back to my work.
Turns out I should have listened to what my son was trying to say.
I’m a big fan of dungarees, but they have their draw backs. One is that they give you access to your nappy. My son, being an inquisitive sort of little primate, had used this access to un-stick the sticky tabs on his nappy. A little later he returns. This time he’s walking a little funny.
“Daddy… Daddy… Daddy… Da-”
“I’ve done a poo.”
I tap his bottom. “Can’t feel anything son.” I say. He looks at his shoe worriedly. There appears to be a medium sized potato lodged in the end of his trouser leg. It’s not a potato.