Monday, November 4, 2013

The Arse-Punching, Sausage Chanting, Pig Thief

Son (singing): Daddy has a chocolate sausage.
Me: Plastic, please.

My son is insane. Not in-a-mall-with-a-flamethrower,insane. But it would appear that over this past weekend something has clicked off in his brain that has veered him toward playful madness. For example - loudly declaring to a packed grocery store cashier's line that I am a chocolate sausage. Just because it's true doesn't mean he should broadcast it. In fact this sausage theme seemed to be the pillar upon which his weekend was built. Hence why he was marching around the house chanting, "Good People, Good Sausage" like a demented druid for much of Sunday. When he wasn't chanting that he was scampering from room-to-room to find out wherever I was just so that he could punch me in the bottom. And then run off again.

At one point I was sat calmly reading. His sister was pleasantly sat on the floor coloring. With a distinct look of seriousness on his face he wandered over - filled with purpose - and told me flatly, "You're out of the club." Not being entirely sure what club this was, or that I had ever been in it I asked what on earth he was talking about. He fobbed off my initial question. In fact he cut me off and repeated again, "you're out of the club." I felt there needed to be a change of strategy so I faked an air of desperation and whelped, "Really!? But how do I get back in!?" The seriousness drained from his face and was replaced by derision. And then he genuinely said, "You? You could try working..." and then ran off at full speed into the kitchen. The instant thought of, "you cheeky bastard" rolled through my mind. But considering I had no idea what he was going on about I figured I'd just let it go. Annoyingly he came back a few minutes later to attach the addendum that, "Mr. Worm is in the club." As he turned to run off again he stopped, turned and stated, "...and so is the ghost." Then buggered off again. He didn't mention any club again for the rest of the day. And even though I'm still none-the-wiser I still somehow felt left out.

I should mention in passing too that he did go see this guy over the weekend too. That sociopathic stare on his face is pure, unbridled joy by the way.

But that wasn't the real indication of descent into delirium. Rather that came Sunday afternoon as I was preparing dinner. I was going to make a nice pork tenderloin thing. But unsurprisingly the meat I'd purchased stank to high heaven. So I had to make what seems to be the fortnightly trip back to the grocery store to point out that - once again - something I'd bought there the day before smells like it had been left to fester in the sun for a week before being packaged. Needless to say I didn't take the offer to "pick out another one" and traveled a mile or so into the next town to a different store. When I got home with a pork sirloin I chucked together a dry-marinade for it, rubbed it all over and then set to taking the garbage outside.

When I came back the entire kitchen smelled incredibly strongly of garlic and rosemary. And so did the spare room. Too strongly. The real indication that something was amok was that there was marinade all over the floor. Add the pork was missing. Knowing that the dog was outside I crossed him off the list of possible suspects. My son then wandered in - face completely free of guilt - but holding his hands in such a way that told me that he had something unpleasant on them that now meant he wouldn't be able to use them for a good hour or so. So while his general demeanor suggested all was fine, his hands betrayed him.

Now my son is a very good boy. He very rarely does anything you could label as wrong. He'll test the boundaries and have the odd tantrum. Normal three year old stuff, basically. But outside of that the only thing I recall him doing that he knew he shouldn't was taking candy upstairs to his room and secretly eating it under his bed. And that was actually his sister's idea. Add "secretly" is being misused completely here because as soon as he got half way through he came down stairs to whisper to me that he was secretly eating candy under his bed. So I had no reason other than the incapacitated hands to think my son had any incling of what was going on.

So I casually asked to the room (but pointed the final part of the question toward him), "where is the pork?" To which my son, chuckling but still desperately trying to keep his hands spread wide so the fingers don't touch each other - said, "I hid it." With a big, fat smile on his face too. I was impressed with how I not only kept my calm but that I didn't weird-out at how bizarre that statement was. After asking him what he meant he went through the usual rigmarole when he has hidden something of showing me exactly where it was. And then beaming at what a great trick he'd played, and how fabulous he is for finding something so quickly. He led me out of the kitchen and into the spare room, past the old CD case that his sister now keeps all my old unwanted CDs that was lying on the floor. On top of which, by the way, was a big chunk of marinade. Then he gleefully scootched down and peeked under a pile of stuff that was on the couch in such a way as to suggest that what I'm looking for is hidden (very badly) under it. And by, "it" I mean a couch cushion, a huge coloring book, a wooden snake (presumably to ward off looters) and a seventy-six key, electronic keyboard that he'd plonked wonkily on top of the rest of the stuff. And there - squashed underneath - was the pork. Still on the little cutting board I'd been using as well. Although judging by the spatters of marinade in various places it hadn't remained on it for the entire journey.

Now he has never done anything like that. It's just too mental. So, bewildered I asked him why he'd done that. I was quite impressed actually that my mouth asked that but that my brain very loudly said, "what the fuck are you doing?" Without answering he cheerily ran off upstairs. No excuse given at all. It transpired later on in the day that his only reasoning was that he, "didn't want that for lunch." Which is a cast-iron defense if ever there was one. Thankfully though after that he didn't follow it up with anything close to as demented.

Still kept punching me in the arse though.

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