Monday, July 19, 2010

Smoke bomb

Sticky Baby has discovered, and perfected, the art of the ‘Smoke Bomb’.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term:

Smoke Bomb:  Used in war as a diversion to disguise entry or exit of troops; To disappear from a social situation, swiftly and subtly. Handy when one is bored, uncomfortable, would rather be elsewhere, can’t be bothered with general farewelling rigmarole. Easily achieved at parties with numerous guests. Some guests may be known to suddenly ask, eyebrows arched, "Where’s so-&-so gone?". Oh, he’s done a smoke bomb...

Papadada is an adept Smoke Bomber. He has the skill down to a science. He thinks he’s Jason Bourne from The Bourne Identity. Now that we’re married he expects me to adopt this behaviour. I talk too much to be a good smoke bomber, but I’m working on it.

Sticky Baby, on the other hand, totally poached that sneaky little chromosome from his father. He’s a natural.

It all happened at Friday morning’s big event - his little friend’s 1st birthday party. I was so excited for him. His first social do with peers. I had big dreams of seeing him playing alongside the other children, even indulging in his first piece of birthday cake.

We were one of the first to arrive, but as all the other guests traipsed in, I sensed there would be trouble in Sticky-ville. ALL of the invited children were girls. Ewwwwwww, girl germs! Seriously, that’s what the kid was thinking. The birthday boy was Sticky Baby’s only ally and seeing he was the star of the show, Sticky Baby didn’t stand a chance at having his pal stay by his side. Fair enough.

It’s the first time I’ve seen my son so shy and awkward. He’s usually the bald kid who greets others with a bop on the nose and a finger in the eye. All friendly gestures, of course. Here, surrounded by little women, I could see him quietly shitting himself. Gulp, went his wee little adam’s apple. He crawled onto my lap, not before rummaging through the nappy bag to retrieve his beloved blue rabbit comforter. And there he sat, on mummy’s knee, terrified at the dresses, bows, patent sandals and long eyelashes that surrounded him.

He lasted a further 10 minutes, at one stage braving the floor and crawling towards one of the pretty little ladies. She must’ve said, in baby language, “Do I look fat in this?” or “Tell me what you’re feeling”, because before I knew it he was back tugging at my ankles with pleading eyes.

The rest of the party? He spent in the birthday boy’s crib upstairs, fast asleep, sucking on blue rabbit’s ears. Smoke Bomb.

The baby monitor flashed and whirred to life only when ALL of the guests had left. Sticky Baby stretched and yawned, a big smile on his face, emerging from the crib triumphant, with only his birthday boy pal left to play with. Just the way he had wanted it from the beginning.

So I didn’t get to see my boy with a cute little coned party hat on. Nor did I get to see him smear cake icing through his curls. But I did get to chat with the other mums, without interruption, and sink a glass of bubbly. A good morning in my books!

It was the smoke bomb to end all smoke bombs, but at least the little dude knows his limits. Too many girls for now, mum.

He won’t be saying that in 15 years time, that’s for sure....


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