Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger and it's Mr T's 40th Birthday!

Did you hear about the depressed man that ate his own finger? (Depressed Man Eats His Own Finger) 

I’d read the story a couple of days ago and had forgotten about it until Mr T’s 40th birthday arrived. I thought it was an interesting way to deal with depression and certainly guaranteed him the attention he needed, but what I really want to know is if anyone asked him what it tasted like and how he ate it. Did he slow-cook it, so the meat fell from the bone, or does he prefer his meat medium-rare?

Thankfully, Mr T isn’t about to start eating himself, but after an operation to remove a salivary gland followed by a bout of gastro, almost two weeks of inactivity, school holidays and now a 40 year milestone, he’s not feeling like the perkiest boob in the strip club.

I tried pointing out some positives: he’s married to a younger woman – he’s in his forties and I’m in my thirties; he may feel old, but a particular part of his anatomy has at least another 40 years left in it. In fact, when he woke and said he was surprised he hadn't passed away in his sleep, I pointed out to him that a part of him was awake and rearing to go a good 5–10 minutes before he was, and if he had passed away it would be waving about screaming, ‘Resuscitate him! I’m not done with this world yet!’

At least he isn’t insisting on buying a sports car, getting hair implants or swapping his wife for a younger model. The latter is certainly not an option; he can’t keep up with the one he has now (that may change when she reaches her forties in six months time).

So, how does Mr T cope with today’s depressing milestone?  He offers to shout everyone (who’s at home) McDonald’s for breakfast.

Some may see this as a typical act of depression – eating unhealthy food. At least it’s not his finger! But I see it as Mr T challenging himself. He’s challenging his cholesterol levels, challenging the kilos he lost over the last couple of weeks and he’s challenging his mouth to withstand the pain of chewing a bacon and egg mcmuffin. (I ordered hotcakes as well, just in case the last challenge was too difficult, but I forgot he had to eat excruciatingly slow and ate them for him.)

We all handle life’s events, good and bad, differently. Lucky for Mr T, he has me to hold him hostage, torture him with woeful jokes and force him to smile through gritted teeth.

Please note: Due to the momentous event of Mr T’s 40th birthday, a recount of the vomit battle has been postponed until next week.

The Mummy Willeh Monster

Every now and then kindergarten children produce something a little more interesting than the standard odd-shaped circle containing three dots and a line to represent a face. After completing the picture with four longer lines pointing in random directions to represent the arms and legs, they incorporate their imagination into the drawings, but the results aren’t always what we expect.

Here’s a picture that Tomboy painted at kindergarten this week. I’m sure that, like me, you’re wondering what the short middle leg is and I have no doubt that, like me, you guessed right – it’s a willeh!

 

Just to be sure, I asked Tomboy and she confirmed it. She called the strange looking creature a willeh monster.

‘So it’s a boy monster,’ I said.

‘No, it’s a mummy monster,’ she replied.

‘But it has a willeh!’

‘Yes, it’s a mummy willeh monster,’ replied Tomboy matter of factly.

I reminded her, ‘I don’t have a willeh.’

‘I know, I was just pretending.’

So last week she told Mr T he had big boobs and this week she’s painting mummy as a monster with a willeh. (Mr T thought he had problems!)

There are many theories that can be tossed about on this one. Maybe she sees me as a monster when I’m angry (and rightly so), but that doesn’t explain the willeh.

She’s always been a bit put out that Mr T and Boywonder have willehs and we don’t. (It doesn’t help that Boywonder says they’re awesome because they have willehs.) Maybe she thinks she’s doing me a favour by giving me a willeh.

My favourite theory is that Mummy wears the pants!

So, Mummy looks like a monster when she’s angry, but she’s an awesome monster because she has a willeh.

Yep, that definitely says that I wear the pants…especially when I’m angry!

Who has big boobies?

From the moment we have children we’re reminded of how old we are. Despite the tubby belly that sticks out above the top of the nappy and the baby fat that cushions their limbs, we see perfection. From the velvety hair on their heads, to the silken skin that covers their bodies, they’re everything we’re not.

It’s not cute when Mr T’s belly sticks out above the top of his pants and the small amount of fat I used to love sitting high on my chest has started heading south. Some of it may have even migrated to my thighs. Why it would want to move from the chest to the thigh is beyond me, but that was the last place I saw it. That's still gotta be better than remaining attached to my chest, but sitting on my belly…hasn't it?

Even if we manage to keep the bulges in check and where they should be, we can’t escape the ravages of time and circumstance as the wrinkles move in, and, as in Mr T’s case, the hair moves out. We all experience the signs of aging. Some of us openly work hard to fight it, throwing diet, exercise and cosmetic surgery at it, others ignore it in the hope it will slow down faster than what we do, and the rest of us alternate between ignorance and short spurts of dieting and exercise.

Regardless of whether we’re comfortable with it and how we deal with it, there is always an innocent child waiting in the wings to remind us of our true physical appearance. Mr T was helping Tomboy dress herself after her bath when he joked that she’d better cover up her big boobies.

‘I don’t have big boobies!’ she replied indignantly, as any four year old still sporting some leftover baby fat would.

‘Sorry, small boobies,’ replied Mr T. ‘Who has big boobies?’ he asked her.

‘Mummy – and you, Daddy.’

Being small busted I felt quite chuffed; Mr T didn’t, but I believe he’s about to enter into one of those short spurts of dieting and exercise.

Froggy recognition

While visiting her aunty in Queensland, Miss Flora enjoyed a close encounter with a large green tree frog. After spending a few minutes oohing and aahing over the frog, Miss Flora returned to the lounge room with Aunty.

No sooner had Miss Flora sat down when she spied Aunty’s coasters. They each contained a vivid photograph of a green tree frog, identical to the real frog Miss Flora and Aunty had been saying hello to.

Miss Flora picked up a coaster in each hand and raced to the back door, begging Aunty to open it. As soon as Aunty obliged, Miss Flora shot out the door to the frog. She very carefully laid the coasters on the ground in front of him and pointed at them, exclaiming, ‘look! look!’

Not yet two, Miss Flora not only connected the frog with the pictures on the coasters, but was desperate to share her discovery with him.

Maybe it was the frog’s lack of reaction or she felt he couldn’t quite see the coasters properly, but laying them in front of him wasn’t sharing enough. Miss Flora placed her hand behind the frog and tried to gently push him forward towards the coasters.

It’s small moments like this that remind me of how magical being a parent can be.

When I Was Young…

Boywonder starts school this year, and with it comes the realisation that he's much older and more experienced than Tomboy and Miss Flora. 

I overheard him telling Tomboy about one of his many life experiences. He began with 'When I was young…'

My Son Isn't Gay…He's Just Like Me!

Why do so many men fear that their son (especially if he's an only son) might grow up to be homosexual?

Mr T has often expressed concern that Boywonder might grow up with gay tendencies, because he is constantly in the company of his four sisters, and playing dress-ups (in women's clothing as much as men's). I believe the fear isn't really about the son's masculinity, but their own, and today, Boywonder gave Mr T something to think about.

Tomboy, Boywonder and Miss Flora spent the morning rummaging through the dress-up box. Like most children, their favourite costumes are the ones that mimmick adults, so it wasn't surprising to see Tomboy and Boywonder wearing large jackets and neckties with handbags slung over their shoulders.

Boywonder asked me to help do up the buttons on his jacket and adjust the old Woolworths scarf around his neck that Uni Student used to wear to work. Once finished, he informed me that he was 'going to work'.

A little confused about the mix of male and female clothes and accessories, I asked, 'As a man or a woman?'

'As a man,' he replied indignantly. 'I have a handbag like Daddy!'

Although the handbag slung over Boywonder's shoulder was small on an adult, it was quite large next to him, looking much like Mr T's large side bag does when he goes to work.

So next time Mr T worries that too many females are affecting Boywonder's masculinity, I will remind him that his handbag is bigger than mine!

Imaginative Play 2

Boywonder and Tomboy's imaginative play just became a little more interesting. Tomboy was sitting on my rowing machine (they sit on it more than I do, but that's another story) pretending to drive Batman's car. She bellowed for Boywonder to come and join her in the car, but he preferred to watch television. 

Frustrated with Boywonder's lack of interest, Tomboy realised that she needed something to tempt Boywonder, so her next shout was, 'Bill and Ben are in Batman's car too. Do you want to drive with them?'

Bill and Ben are Boywonder's best friends from kindergarten and he knew they weren't here in our house or in Tomboy's imagined Batman car, but he leapt from his seat and raced to the rowing maching.

'Cool, when did you pick Bill and Ben up?' he asked Tomboy before climbing onto the back of the rowing machine. Of course he was careful not to stand or sit on Bill and Ben.

I can't help but be amazed at the boundaries they apply to their imagined games. Is it okay to add someone to your imaginary car if your playmate approves of the added passengers? 

I suppose it's not much different to the rules we impose on a game of beach cricket or catch and kiss. Who wouldn't change the rules just a little if chasing down Wentworth Miller, Will Smith or Brad Pitt for a kiss?