Another weekend sans chilluns.
I get mad at them sometimes. If my logical and analytical mind can't immediately grasp the entire situation as a whole, I get frustrated. Illogical and seemingly irrational things can do that, as anyone with a similar brain can attest.
"What are you doing?" (loaded and pointed question)
"..." (blank stare with zero verbal response)
"Are you allowed to play with that?" (a simple question, but again very pointed)
"No." (slight signs of relief at a question so easily answered, obviously showing no foresight)
"Then why are you playing with it?"
"..." (back to blank stare with brief and hasty movements to stop doing so)
"WHY ARE YOU PLAYING WITH IT?" (disbelief and disapproval abound)
"Um, coz I'm naughty?" (this is Georgia's patented answer) or "I don't know?" (this one tends to be Damon's)
I get caught, once again, between exasperation at their audacity and admiration at their unequivocably methodical experimentation. It's one thing to say, "They're just kids, kids do that kind of thing," and another to realize that they're like little scientists, testing and measuring and learning what they can from the results.
I honestly do admire them. They amaze me sometimes.
It's cool out, as it's been raining for two days, breaking only for golf in the morning. Poppy is fond of proclaiming God to be a golfer, and he has yet to be proven wrong as the rain always misses us. I held off Johnny, the legally blind Kiwi, with an 8-foot putt on the 18th hole to win by a stroke for the second week in a row. After going out every single week with these four blokes since I first got here, I am only winning now that I'm officially an Aussie.
George is up from her nap, as are Jo and I. We'd all happened to crash out at roughly the same time, with the exception of Damon who crawled into bed and cuddled and whispered to first Jo and then myself until one of us finally woke up. He is now happily clicking through the Special Features of "A Bug's Life" like he invented that freakin' remote control, and I am sitting on the couch reading some Robert Heinlein. I'm attempting to grok what the author is referring to when he uses the word "grok" in context of the Martian language and marveling at the fact that my boy doesn't quite read yet, though he navigates through Behind The Scenes clips like he designed the interface.
Jo's on the computer, chatting with a mutual friend of ours as well as her sister, Roni. She's happily tuning in some streaming music and marveling at the similarities of our tastes after I comment on my love for almost every song that's been played. She is randomly wandering through the lounge room and kissing me on my neck, checking to see if everything is cool. She smells good, like comfortable clothes and a hint of slightly-athletic sweat, and I tell her so.
Georgia's pouting a bit, for as much as she ever can without getting distracted by how much fun life is, because she accidentally wet her pants pre-nap and is naked from the waist down. She's also been told off for chewing on her toys and sucking her fingers. Oral fixations aside, she doesn't tend to take anything terribly personally for too long. Her pouting and crying are only intended to communicate to us her displeasure with being punished. She doesn't actually feel any guilt or remorse for destroying yet another small and intricate toy, and grudgingly puts on the knickers that I hand to her.
Dames finally asks for some assistance with the movie menus, as he's switched the entire setup to German and is a bit bothered by the fact that, "DAD, everyfin turned Chinese! What happened?!?"
I close my book and sit on the bigger couch, picking up my little girl's legs with one hand and setting them upon my lap after plopping down. As I struggle with the DVD settings, my boy climbs up onto my lap and comfortably conforms his little body into mine, much like he does when either Jo or myself is napping. By the time I decide to simply shut the whole DVD off and restart it again, both children are snuggled into me and we're lounging quite effectively. If only I could get one hand free to shove into the front of my waistband, I'd pull a beautiful "Al Bundy." We all agree that maybe we should just watch the DVD as opposed to watching the special footage of the Director chasing insects around the parking lot.
Dames knows all the lines, and repeats them after the fact while looking at me expectantly for the same humourous response that I gave the idiot box. I do so to humour him, though I learn quickly to pay less attention to the movie and laugh more at his renditions. He gleefully continues as his sister absently plays with my fingers and giggles at both of us as well as the TV. She patiently waits for moments when it seems unlikely for him to play up any on-screen joke and then belts out her own version. This usually involves a moment that one might not find terribly funny, yet she sits up, gives a recap, and cackles raucously.
"It's like a CAR! BWAHAHAHAAAA!! A CAR!!!"
She gets the same response from me, though a fair bit of it is genuine laughter at her complete silliness. We exchange smiles, she settles back down onto me, and we go back to watching our movie. We're comfortable and we're all happy.
And then he's there. Standing on the front porch, smiling slightly awkwardly through the window, politely waiting for me to open the door. I'd spaced the fact that he was coming by and I'm startled to say the least. I jostle the kids to their feet and they excitedly greet him with cries of "Daddy!"
I edge past him and give him a bit of a stern look. The one that tells him to be on his best behaviour this weekend. That these are my kids too, and he better take as good a care of them as I would. That he skates on such incredibly thin ice with me already, given his past actions before I even arrived, that he should always be prepared for me to deliver him a complete and thorough ass-kicking with only minimal provocation. The look that makes him shorter and smaller than me, though he is in fact NOT.
I grab the kid's carseats and buckle the attachments into his car. My eagerness to do so does not in any way reflect an intention to expedite the children's departure. I do so to ensure that he won't attempt to do it himself, for I trust him only as far as I trust a magpie to carry him and I want to make absolute certain that my kids are safe.
He's brought his dog, who's name translates from the Aboriginal as "worthless," and Jo takes him out of the car and runs him around for a bit. The kids jabber excitedly about going to see their "Grandie and Grandad" (his parents, whose house they stay at as opposed to staying with him) as well as the events of their day and week. The awkward occasion frequently arises when one of the kids calls out, "Daddy?" and both Steve and I say "What?" My bitter and petty inner-child notices that I'm always a step ahead of him in this response, though the child is usually Damon and he is calling to either of us about half the time. Georgia defers to me as "Daddy" and uses his full name when trying for his attention, which secretly makes me smile inside.
Both kids are buckled in, snug and tight, and I lean across George to kiss Damon's head and tell him to have a good time. I move to kiss her head and tell her to have a good time. She beats me to the punch when I go to remind her to behave with a solemn, "I'll be good Daddy. I'll be a good girl."
With Steve still leaning over and fussing with the complexities of a seat-belt, Damon's eyes get serious and he tells me, "I miss you, Dad. I'm gonna miss you." My heart drops as I pull his little head against mine and tell him I'm going to miss him too. I kiss him goodbye again.
I'm doing my best to keep my composure as Georgia says to me, "I miss you Daddy, I'll miss you and I will." I kiss her forehead and give her a nosey-nosey and tell them that I'll miss them both terribly, but that they'll have a good time and to be good.
His dog is incredibly obnoxious, still being a puppy and all, and constantly has to nip and lick at people's faces in an extremely over-exuberant manner. I cringe as I see both kids recoil, especially Damon who doesn't really care for dogs, when the dog leans over into the backseat area and harasses them.
I hate this.
Let me rephrase that... I really, really, HATE this.
I miss them. This house doesn't really make sense without them in it. Sure, we turn up the music to way-too-loud levels, have one too many beers, and run around naked being as noisy as we wish. We eat a dinner of Toohey's Ale and baked snacks while surfing the internet. We only have ourselves to concern ourselves with, and we can make plans accordingly. We have our share of fun.
But we miss them. We both miss them something awful and, if given our druthers, would never have them leave. Not with him at least.
We're going out tonight. A chance to put on The Hotness and show it off a bit. We might stumble home and drunkenly undress each other as any other relatively-newlywedded couple might do.
Unlike other newlyweds, there's something bittersweet about those moments when a passionate embrace is broken only long enough to dig a miniature skateboarding Tony Hawk from behind one's back and fling it across the room.
Our weekend is our own and we're having fun, but all will be right with the World once our kids are back under our roof.
