We were awoken by a small Clydesdale galloping into our bedroom.
“Mummy, Daddy, can I get in the middle?” Andrew asked from Janine’s side of the bed.
“Of course you can,” Janine said while I struggled to open my eyes.
“I can’t get the in middle ‘cause Daddy’s there,” Andrew said once he’d climbed up.
Obligingly, I rolled over. Andrew has this thing about being excessively cheerful at 6:30am on a Saturday morning. There’s no law against it, but sometimes I wish he’d enjoy sleeping in, like the rest of the human race.
The three of us were lying there for a few seconds, when Andrew piped up again.
“Everyone who wants to play a game, put up your hand.”
Nothing happened.
Andrew thought for a few seconds.
“Let’s see who can put up their hands the fastest. Ready, set, GO!”
My hand shot up. I couldn’t help it — it was a reflex reaction.
“Mummy…” Andrew said, an implicit plea in his tone.
Janine reluctantly stuck her hand up.
“Okay, now that everyone wants to play, let’s start,” Andrew said happily.
I suppressed a groan. I thought about writing an email to my local member of parliament, asking for a new law to ban children from being enthusiastic first thing in the morning, but I doubted Andrew would pay any attention.
“Knock, knock,” Andrew said.
“Who’s there?”
“Impatient cow.”
“Impatient cow who?”
“Impatient cow wants to play!” Andrew said, and giggled.
The boys very first knock-knock joke came from the outtakes of the Looney Tunes: Back in Action DVD. The punchline was supposed to be “Moo!” and comes in before the “Impatient Cow who?” response was finished, but the boys have moved on from that and come up with their own variations.
We did a few knock-knock jokes, then Janine announced it was time to feed her horse, leaving me alone with the hyper-active, batman-pajama-wearing monster.
“Let’s play a new game,” he said.
“Okay.” I replied, as if I had a choice in the matter.
“Let’s play hide-and-tickle!”
I knew hide-and-seek and I suspected this was an Andrew-special variation. I was right.
“One person has to hide in the bed, and the other had to find them with their hands and tickle them. I’m hiding first.”
I made a mental note that since Janine was missing out, I should introduce her to the game later — after the boys have gone to bed that night. I had already thought up a few interesting adult-only variations to try with her.
“Daddy, count to ten,” Andrew said, and dove under the bed covers.
I counted to ten and then reached under the doona to find and tickle Andrew. Since even a king-sized bed isn’t that big, it didn’t take long. After he yelled, “Stop,” he came out and told me it was my turn.
Given my size, Andrew had no problems at all finding me. The next time, the tickler had to count to eleven, then twelve, then thirteen. At that point, Andrew grinned at me and said, “This is fun, isn’t it!”
I smiled and nodded. What else could I do?
I’m glad to say that the game stopped when we got to fourteen. I wasn’t sure if I could take that much more excitement.
“I know, let’s play the Magic Tunnel Game!” Andrew said.
This is one I knew, as we’d played it the week before.
“I’ll hide in the tunnel first and you wish for what I’m going to be,” he said and then disappeared under the doona.
I thought for a moment. “I wish the Magic Tunnel would give me a cat.”
The sounds of meowing started coming from under the doona. Slowly, tentatively, a small face emerged. It looked sad.
“Are you lost, little kitten?” I asked.
The small face nodded it’s head. I started patting it. “It’s okay. Would you like to live here with me?”
A small grin appeared. It nodded its head again, this time happier. I stroked the fur on the top of its head for a few moments more, and then Andrew grinned.
“Your turn, Daddy!”
I pulled the doona over my head and waited. I wondered what animal I would be asked to be.
“I wish the Magic Tunnel would give me… a ‘ceratops! A triceratops,” Andrew said.
I started to panic. What sound does a triceratops make? I quickly improvised and began growling, while holding my two hands up as two of the three horns. I had to hope he’d accept my nose as the third horn — even though it is definitely not that big. I was lucky — Andrew seemed to accept me as a reasonable three-horned dinosaur.
When it was my next turn to choose, I decided to pick something different and asked for a motorbike. Andrew was more than happy to make the sounds of engine, as he zoomed out from under the covers.
His next choice was a brachiosaurus. I had to give up.
“I’m sorry, Andrew. I don’t know how to be a brachiosaurus.”
I’m slowly learning that being a parent is a lot more complex than the brochures made out. I must’ve missed the class on how to be a prehistoric monster and I’m suffering as a consequence. I wonder how many other classes I missed out on.